Omelettes and pancakes-with-maple-syrup-of-course detained us long enough to have to hurry for the changing of the guard ceremony on Parliament Hill. The band played well whilst 50-odd 12 year olds stomped and slapped in red wool jackets and bearskins in a ceremony created by committee – touching, unnecessarily officious and not quite disciplined. The English tours of Parliament had all filled up, but we immediately got onto a French one. Handy, that degree, because everything is bilingual; quietly, assertively so. The Parliament is based firmly on the British model, even down to the English green carpet! And of course, the governor’s chair. The building is stately, well-executed and attractive; it is on quite a small scale, but embodies national pride in principles of democracy, equity and tolerance or rather, “peace, security and good government.” I am beguiled by the Canadian sense of self and nationhood, as by a precocious but well-brought up young relation. It does, however, sidestep the Quebec Question and the ambiguous status of the aboriginal people. We’ll see anon. In the afternoon, we spent more time seeking, finding, installing-and-finding-wanting, the memory for the slate. (Pre-cursor of the later ubiquitous tablet.) But we did eventually head through Gatineau district in Quebec to the Park which is thickly wooded and populated prettily, like Switzerland, signed monolingually like France, to Wakefield, a back woods ‘heritage’ town on a lake. Hicksville with lace and internet. Dinner at a Lebanese with Storm.