Poutine Puts on Pounds, Quebec

While in Quebec this past week, I was introduced to a new food: poutine.

In the words of my Quebecois friend, poutine is what you eat at the end of a long night of drinking to sop up all the alcohol.

After just a few bites of poutine, I'm pretty sure that the only way I could finish off a batch would be if I were totally drunk. Otherwise, I'm quite certain my stomach would rebel, as well as my good sense.

Just think of the calories and fat lurking in this: a basket of french fries topped with cheese curds and smothered in gravy.

Fun with Father, St. Benoit du Lac, Quebec

One of the things I like most about travel is the opportunity to encounter characters -- people who grab life by the horns, are open to others, and willing to share their tales.

These types of people exist everywhere, even right close to my home. But at home, I don't often come face to face with strangers. I stick to my routine and the people I know.

But when I travel, everyone is a stranger. And therefore, everyone I talk to is a potential character.

Now that I'm home from my recent trip to Quebec and reflecting on the journey, one particular character stands out.

I met Father Bolduc for a morning tour of the Saint Benoit du Lac Monastery.

Father Bolduc joined the monastery at the age of 21 and has been there for 60 years. That puts him at a ripe 81 years of age.

I can only hope to be as spry, witty and with-it when I am that age. This father was making jokes, posing for pictures, and connecting with his office on his beeper while filling us in on the history of his monastery, his daily prayer schedule, his past travels to Italy, and his community's making of cheese and apple cider.

And then, suddenly, the bell tower struck twelve. He bid us adieu and disappeared down a hallway for his noon time chanting and church.

Sheepish at Ulverton Woolen Mill, Quebec

The road to the Ulverton Woolen Mill was bumpy and secluded.

So bumpy and secluded, in fact, that we started to wonder why we were going to there.

Jokes were cracked. Giggles were heard. Where, oh where, in the world were we going? And what, pray tell, would we do once we arrived?

But we had an appointment to keep, a tour to take. In other words, somebody was waiting for us.

We couldn't just no show and return to paved roads. And so we kept going, biased before we arrived. We'd do our duty, do our tour, and then be gone.

However, the woolen mill proved us wrong. This old mill, built in 1849, has been salvaged, restored and turned into a lovely, rural retreat.

The natural falls churned and kicked up bubbly waves. The covered bridge spanning the falls was a visual kick-back to another era. A skinny suspension bridge offered an easy walkway from the old mill, over the angry water, and to an assortment of wooded trails.

The mill itself has been converted into a museum that showcases wool-making techniques of yore. The machines inside, though, are not of the spinning wheel variety. They are leftovers from the industrial revolution - big, noisy and oiled contraptions.

Plus, a cafeteria in the old mill's basement serves up simple box lunches of sandwiches and chips. After our touring and nature walking, we partook of these box lunches on the mill's outdoor patio, surrounded on three sides by a bend in the river.

It was lovely at the old mill. Lovely. Lovely indeed.

As we said our good-byes to the place and gathered up our things to go, we felt sheepish at the jokes we'd been cracking not so long ago. It was a reminder of just how important it is to keep an open mind, whether in travel or in life.

High Tea Twice, Eastern Townships, Quebec

I will not be flying home from Quebec. I will be rolling.

I have been stuffed here like a foie gras duck. Or should I say like a Brome duck?

Since I've landed in this little neck of the woods, I've learned that duck farming is big business here.

Today, though, I ate no duck. However, I did eat a full breakfast, a filling lunch in the form of a proper high tea, and a four course dinner. Oh, and don't forget the afternoon break for scones and tea.

In fact, I consumed more tea in the past 24 hours than I've ever consumed in one day ever before! Forget about rolling home. Maybe I'll float.

But I greedily swallowed all that tea. I needed something to wash down the cucumber sandwiches, the spinach tartlets, the heavenly chocolate goodies, the sweet orange wedges dusted with cinnamon and -- of course -- the scones upon scones upon scones served with heaping mounds of clotted cream and berry-packed jams.

My first tea of the day was taken at The Uplands, a historic home in a village called Lennoxville. It was very nice. Very civilized. Very fine.

My second pot of tea for the day was taken at Manoir Hovey, a stately boutique hotel on a high hill overlooking a shimmering lake.

Sipping and Sniffing in Lac Brome, Quebec

Last night, after a filling and fabulous dinner, I was served a dark chocolate truffle that tasted of lavender.

It was an unexpected sensation, this hint of lavender on my tongue; my body is so much more accustomed to gathering this herbal delight in through my nose.

Well, today I shook the hand of a lavender grower when I visited a small lavender farm called Joie de Lavande.

Its fields don't yet measure up to those fragrant and photogenic acres upon acres in Provence, France. But this Quebec lavender farmer is still in his beginning stages. He only started his plants a few years ago.

Nonetheless, it was a pleasant treat to stop and smell the roses, er, lavender for a while or so. What was left of it anyway. Apparently, harvest season for lavender is in July.

To help me wash down my lavender-infused dark chocolate truffle last night, I sipped on a sweet and smooth iced wine.

And today, after various sightseeing, we stopped at the local winery that grew the grapes that produced the wine so that we could have some more.

The L'Orpailleur vineyard is the oldest in this part of Quebec, and it's managed to win quite a few international awards since opening in 1982.

Several of those went to the Vin de Glace, the sweet iced wine I enjoyed last night ... and again this afternoon.

In Fields of Green, West Brome, Quebec

I am surrounded by fields of green. Green clover. Green trees. Green, green. Everywhere.

I am in a village called West Brome, which is in Quebec, about an hour south of Montreal. Basically, once you look at a map, it turns out that I'm only about 20 minutes away from the US border and the state of Vermont.

I'm here on tour of the Eastern Townships, which is a road trip through small-town southern Quebec. I don't know much about this area, and I didn't study up on it before I arrived.

Even though this trip has been on my calendar for a month, it snuck up on me and my life and suddenly ... well, here I am surrounded by green.

After checking into a small inn just beyond West Brome, I slipped out of my room eager to stretch my airplane legs.

Seemingly endless amounts of green stretched from the inn's back door and a walking path was cut through it. I strode off, up a hill and passed grazing cows. In the distance, bails of hay dotted the landscape. After the hay, the trail entered wooded land.

Back in my room, I decided that maybe I should learn a little bit more about where I was. My inn, which is actually and inn/spa, is called Auberge & Spa West Brome.

It sits on 200 acres of land and the owners have put forth considerable efforts to keep the pastures green, not only in color but in the trendy version of the word as well.

For example, they capture rain water and use it in their spa treatments. The kitchen composts its scraps to bolster up the garden soil. The bar shreds its wine corks to mulch the garden. The garden grows organic herbs for use in the kitchen.

Plus, for every event held on the inn grounds (apparently this is a big wedding spot), the owners plant a tree and dedicate it in your name.

On top of that, because the inn is a bit off the beaten path, the inn makes a donation to offset the carbon emissions put out by the arrival of corporate types who come from the big city for company conferences.

No wonder I'm sitting pretty in fields of green.