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The Weather Network
Sep. 18, 2019 | Wednesday
Local News
NOTL Writers’ Circle: A hike at Queenston Heights
Annamarie Kelly. (Supplied)


Trudging up the grass from where we had finally found a parking space, I dragged my less than willing daughter through the park. It was a warm spring afternoon and the sound of children’s laughter and the buzzing of flying insects filled the air. I love this time of year, the trees bursting with new buds and leaves thick and full, making Queenston Heights Park a place of unspoilt beauty.

But that day, I was on a mission. One to help said daughter with a school problem, in which they were required to research an individual of note to the area. And who better than the man who stood atop a huge pillar, his statue immortalizing him, hand pointed towards the Americas. I could almost hear those last words accredited to him “push on, don’t mind me” as he fell. So British. And given he was shot in the heart, probably so unsaid. But it made for a more interesting, if not slightly Python-esque story.

“Wow! Look at that!”

My fond gaze took in the way my daughter was already lining up her iPhone to take a picture of the impressive monument. Bursting with the enthusiasm of a parent ready to fill their little half-empty vessel with knowledge, I broke into the story of the mighty Sir Isaac Brock. Hands gestured wildly as I lost myself in the passion of the moment.

I eloquently spoke of how the brave General, who when faced with an invading army of American soldiers entrenched in the Heights, made the decision to attack. Fearing that the Americans would soon be bolstered with larger numbers from those still trying to cross the river, he led the assault up the hill to drive them off. He believed if they waited for reinforcements, then the rest of the Americans would join their brethren, and the battle would be lost.

Not a man to expect his troops to do anything he himself would not, the tall, brightly uniformed General bravely led from the front. With words of encouragement he forged onward, even when injured in the arm. But, tragically, the fatal shot to his heart felled him before he made it to the field of battle. But that day the British were victorious, the Americans driven back. And General Brock was declared a hero, forever immortalised by the tall majestic monument.

I paused, awaiting the accolades of having told a riveting story. But rather than the expected adoration, her look was one of irritation laced with a great deal of embarrassment. With a long-suffering moan, she averted her eyes from two teens who strode past, head shaking, eyes rolling. “Mum. You’re weird.” The huffed-out words were accompanied by the lifting of her phone allowing me a look at the screen. The monument now blended into the background as I regarded the strange little cartoon character before it.

“What is that?”

The confused question elicited yet another eye-roll, my lack of knowledge seemingly unforgivable. “That’s Pikachu. Don’t you know anything?”