To the islands

Toronto lies on the northern shore of Lake Ontario.

One of the founding fathers was Colonel John Graves Simcoe, a British officer who had fought in the American War of Independence and who, according to the Short History of Ontario that I am currently reading, regarded the American victory an unfortunate outcome that gave the rabble majority supemacy over the educated elite.

Simcoe was a relative of philanthropist John Graves after whom the Art Gallery above Sheffield Central Library is named, which may account for the Yorkshire flavour of the settlement (originally named York), with its Rivers Don and Humber. It adopted the native name of Toronto in 1834.

The city, with its impressive skyline, has crept to the very brink of the waterfront, so pleasure seekers must take the ferry out to the nearby islands which have been designated a no car zone dedicated to the wholesome business of recreation.

On Sunday, Beth and I set out early to beat the rush. We were on the ferry by 9.30am and cycling through the manicured parkland by 10am. It is a measure of this egalitarian community that there is one beach for naturists, another where clothing is optional and a third at the opposite end of the island with clothing mandatory. My squeamishness made me opt for the latter, not out of consideration for my neighbouring bathers but to preserve in my mind the hopeful ideal of perfection. Besides which, I burn easily.