I arrive in Montreal and look at the sea of fellow travellers that all seem to know where they are going and many being met by friends and family. Where is my son and grandson?

I wave my white stick hopefully and fumble with my phone praying technology to work.

           ‘Granny!’ says an excited young voice.

I am found.

Rain pours down in Montreal, and we wade through a carpark looking for a manly truck that my son has hired. He is a professor used to using his mental capacity, now he has to play the part of lumberjack, He has bought a plot of land on an island in the middle of a lake in Quebec, so far there is a wooden dock that was built with the help of his brother, plus a shed and a latrine.

He has spent the last two weeks on the island with his 12- year- old son, man and boy, his son has a tent stretched between two trees, his son is the labourer and has grown muscles as a tree house is being built. His father is struggling with being practical and it is a hard job.

We find the truck and drive though driving rain in impossible traffic, remaining at a standstill. We are hungry and once moving we go to a McDonalds which is the only option. I am shocked at the paucity of my burger. My son ordered a veggie burger but there was no burger just lettuce and cheese!

We left grey buildings behind and a verdant landscape of undulating densely forested hills surrounded us in the silence of the wilderness, apart from the ubiquitous song of the loons, a bird I had never heard of before.

Roads narrow, and we see a racoon highlighted in the headlights.

We arrive at our comfortable chalet on the edge of the lake.

The next morning, I am winched into a dingy and we chug across the  dark water, dense forest on either side.

We reach the island, and climb onto the dock and explore; the forest is present but manageable, there is a clearing, sunlight filters though the trees, chipmunks dart about.

My universe for the next 10 days is that wooden dock. The other being in this universe is my grandson.

We arrive in the morning feeling the warmth of the sun, I go for my morning swim and my grandson joins me with some hesitation. He then sets up his Hindu temple that includes, Shiva, Krishna and Kartek, he gives me instruction on Hinduism that I find fascinating. We tell each other stories and discuss what the meaning of life might be.

The rest of the party are involved with building the tree house.

In the evening we gather back in the chalet for an evening meal. My daughter in law’s father is here. He is the same age as me, and I feel a bit competitive, but he wins in the physical department, he can still climb ladders and contribute to tree house building.

He tells stories, he is South African Malay, classified as Cape Coloured, and describes apartheid South Africa, there was a restaurant where he lived with a super chicken dish.

The apartheid system was hierarchal, Black Africans were at the bottom, followed be Cape Coloureds, and the Chinese were at the top. The Japanese were honorary whites.

Blacks, Cape Coloureds and Chinese could not enter the restaurant and had to queue at a hatch at the back and take the food home.

He went to medical school, there were segregated dormitories, coloureds on one side and whites on the other, but studying was done together.

He graduated and worked in a South African hospital where he was paid less than his white counterpart.

He decided to emigrate to Canada where he met his wife.

Our last day is spent in Montreal, a gracious city that feels continental, we ate fine food and had such an energising meeting with a son of a friend.

Canada is dramatically beautiful but sells too many burgers!