The War of 1812.


Heading down to Wolfe Island this morning to meet up with some fine Torontonians (who face an hour more of driving each way) to bike around, look at pretty sights, and eat things. I don’t know that I’ve actually been there (and as ferries are a superfun big deal when you’re a wee person, I think I’d remember). I’ve only been to Kingston once in the last 25 years or so, actually. Not sure why it’s not on my radar for adventuring more often. Probably because I’m more inclined to take the train when I go to Southern Ontario. Better for napping, useless for stopping and meandering. Or maybe I just hate history after all. Loyalists? Pre-Confederation politics? BAH! Boring!

(There is a photo somewhere of me sitting on a cannon at Fort Henry. I think that is the most exciting part of most historic sites when one is seven.)

Of course, we’re going down there on move-in weekend at Queen’s, so the city’ll probably jam-packed with embarrassed undergrads and their worried parents. Eh. Chances are, they’ll be too busy fretting about the lack of IKEA and the queues at the Beer Store to go enjoy all the nature nearby.

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