When in doubt, head for the hills

Tracking Back: In the latest in his series of reflections on the meaning of place and pathways, Will Gore revisits a distracted trip to Montreal

The view of the city from Mount Royal, where the bustle of streets and roar cars were soon forgotten (Rex)

Given half a chance I’ll grab the moral high ground. After all, who doesn’t like the smug view from up there?

But physically high places can provide similar certainty: more, in fact, since they can be climbed without implying judgement on others. In unfamiliar cities or towns, I find myself seeking out hills. Tall buildings might do the job, but they offer a constrained viewpoint: in strange territory it doesn’t do to feel cornered.

Eleven years ago, I had travelled to Montreal to give a speech about media regulation (as you do). It was the kind of business trip people dream of – decent hotel, a relaxed agenda and in a country I’d never been to before.

But if truth be known, I was immediately thrown by the city’s foreignness. I had made the erroneous assumption that Canada would feel more or less like home, even in Francophone Quebec, and I was perplexed when I realised just how French the city was. What’s more, I was preoccupied by non-work things. My wife and I had been undergoing IVF treatment, so far unsuccessfully, and time spent away was an unhelpful, worrying distraction.

The conference, to mark the 35^th anniversary of the Quebec Press Council, was a two-day affair – but I had a day to kill beforehand and some of the sessions were closed to external speakers. I had dined alone on the evening of my arrival, my schoolboy French barely up to the task of chatting to a friendly waiter.

An aerial photo of Mount Royal’s trees (Getty)

Next morning, I consulted a flimsy map and headed for the obvious place to get a grip: Mount Royal, the large volcanic hill which is slap bang in the middle of the city.

It was October and the trees covering Mount Royal’s slopes were still ablaze with colour – yellow hickory leaves mixing with the oranges and reds of varied maples. As I wound my way up the hill, following this pathway or that, the bustle of Montreal’s streets and the roar of its cars were quickly forgotten.

Near the summit I came to the Kondiaronk Belvedere, backed by the Chalet du Mont-Royal and giving expansive views over the city. Folk milled about, tourists and locals alike, each doing their own thing on this remarkable high place – the city conquered, souls cleansed by the fresher air that you find as you climb.

In that moment, on that green and pleasant hill, I was reconciled with Montreal; I could see it anew and connect to it. On the downward journey, all seemed calm, even when I arrived back at street level. My French was no better, but it didn’t matter.

The conference passed without a hitch, a collegiate spirit emerging which further tied me to Canada’s second biggest city, and I became moderately obsessed with the baseball that dominated the TV 24/7.

Just over a year later, our daughter was born, from the final embryo that had been frozen during our first round of IVF: perhaps our last chance, we had thought. She isn’t so fond of hills – well, not yet anyway.