It’s a theme that I’m sure will continue to echo throughout my blog, so I hope you’ll forgive the repetition.
I am, it seems, remarkably drawn to places where the tread of time is most visible and where the history of our passage is written in what we’ve left behind in our wake.
The walled city of Old Quebec is just such a place for me. Walking its narrow streets, touching the stones of its architecture, its battlements, one is easily beguiled by this vague disconnection from the here and now. We are in the moment, but at the same time transported back to another time where different souls led different lives, dreamt of different things. The murmurs of that time still resonate as if we are still in their presence.
Even in the chill of winter, amid the snow and the charm of the Holidays, the old city is resolute, holding fast to its place despite the relentless march of time. A pebble in the stream.
This is a place to which I must return.