Driving to Shangri La

I’d go to Canada if I wanted to ski, or fish, or see the Northern Lights, but in the end it was only to launch my (Canadian) boyfriend D.W.’s book that I ventured west. I hate to think of myself as prejudiced, but even lyrical books like Will Fiennes’s The Snow Geese don’t do much to encourage Canadian tourism. Which made D.W.’s goal — to woo me into a love of the Great White North — difficult: I was determined not to be converted.

D.W. is a native of the Kootenay Valley, British Columbia, where, he says, ‘Men are men, and so are women.’ His book is set there, in ‘the Valley’, and is a hard-as-nails collection of short stories about sad men and lost opportunities. This — small-town Canada — was my destination.

D.W.’s ‘ma’ (pronounced maaaa), Kathy, met us at the airport in Calgary, a city somewhere west-of-the-middle. Upon deplaning, we were greeted by aged cowgirls who sing-songed ‘Welcome to Calgary folks!’ as they rocked on their booted heels.