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took a moment to reflect on the previous week. It was without doubt one of the nicest and most varied I’d
     spent in a long time, and I felt that we were startingto get to know the real Canada – we hadn’t rushed through anything or anywhere. I was beginning to realise that this is a very
     special country: there’s a kindness in Canada, a tangible sense of courtesy among the people that I’ve not come across anywhere
     else. And I was really impressed that so many of those we’d met made their living from working the land or sea in the same
     way their forefathers had when they first came here. Next stop was Quebec, and I figured that ought to be an eye-opener for
     sure.
    If you’ve never been to Quebec City, you really should visit. It has to be one of the most spectacular places I’ve ever seen.
     Early the next morning we were on the Funicular, climbing up from the lower part of the city: it’s a sort of railway-cum-cable-car
     and the views across the multicoloured rooftops and the St Lawrence River are amazing. This was a different part of Canada
     altogether: the Capitale-Nationale region, French-speaking and the second largest of Quebec’s cities after Montreal.
    Hopping out of the Funicular, we met up with Sharon Frenette, a local guide who promised to show us some of the old parts
     of this place. As Quebec City is the only walled city on the North American continent, I was sure she’d have some good tales
     to tell. Sharon told us that the province was founded by the French in 1608, right on the St Lawrence River, the gateway to
     North America. It was of vital strategic interest to both the French and the British, and the latter tried to invade on five
     separate occasions, which is why walls were built to defend the city. Unfortunately they were far from finished when the British
     army, under General Wolfe, arrived again in May of 1759.Initially he tried to attack from the eastern side, but the French were waiting, and by September the British still hadn’t
     achieved their goal. On the night of 12 September, however, they managed to move 4,500 men up a dried-up stream bed to a place
     known to the Quebecois as the Plains of Abraham.
    The story goes that at six o’clock the following morning, a French soldier raced to the city to tell his commanding officer
     that an army was on the Plains. The officer told him he’d had too much to drink and to go back to bed. In the end they had
     to send a second messenger from the watch to confirm what the first guy was saying, and word eventually reached the leader
     of the French forces, General Montcalm, that the enemy had indeed scaled the cliffs and were minutes from the city itself.
    For sixty-three days the British had bombarded Quebec, leaving only a single house standing, but they had not been able to
     break down the walls. They were brutal, burning every farm within a hundred miles, hoping that that would force the militiamen
     to leave the city and go home to check on their families. It did, depleting the French army and leaving them so enraged that
     when they found their enemy on the Plains, they came tearing across like a horde of barbarians. The British waited calmly,
     and when the French were within thirty yards, General Wolfe gave the order to fire. The volley of musket balls tore into the
     oncoming troops, killing hundreds in their tracks. It was so intense that it took seven minutes for the smoke to clear enough
     for a second volley. By the time the third round had been fired, the French were fleeing. The battle lasted barely fifteen
     minutes and yet both the commanding generals were killed. The last thing that General Wolfe heard was someone crying, ‘Look
     at that, the French are retreating!’ He knew hewould die a military hero. As for Montcalm, on his deathbed he stated that he was happy to die because now he would not have
     to see his precious Quebec under British rule. There’s a monument to both men in Quebec with an