11 July 2026
Carefree days come to a crashing end…
True to his word, my friend Bob was waiting for me when my train arrived at Toronto’s Union Station in the fall of 1965. I was relieved to see a familiar face after the 6-day Atlantic crossing from England to Montreal and then the overnight train trip to Canada’s biggest, most-intimidating city.
Bob was a Canadian with whom I’d worked in my hometown of Manchester. We were both in our early 20s and we’d had great fun, hitchhiking around England and Scotland together. The fun lasted just six months and then he announced he was returning to Canada because he pined for his former girlfriend. Dismayed at the idea of losing my new best friend, and being a slave to wanderlust, I decided to join Bob in Canada.
My friend had gone on ahead to prepare the way and he was bubbling with excitement as we left the station in search of a taxi.
“I’ve got us a room at a boarding house and jobs at Hallmark Cards packing Christmas cards!” he exclaimed.
His news stunned me. I’d left hearth, home and family to come all the way to Canada for a shared room in a boarding house and a job packing greeting cards?
“Are you serious?!” I yelped.
Oh yes, Bob was serious. “Don’t worry,” he reassured me, “we’ll have lots of fun!”
And despite my misgivings, we did have fun.
The $55 a week we each made easily paid our $12 a week rent and all the beans, wieners and corned beef hash we could handle. And, of course, the visits to the liquor store for beer.
And speaking of the liquor stores, those in Ontario were unlike anything back in England. In Toronto, you entered, went to an “island” where you had to leaf through a kind of directory of all the products. When you’d made your choice, you wrote it on a two-part form, went to the first counter and handed the top part over. From there, you took the copy to the next clerk (behind the till) and paid. Next stop, the final counter where you waited for your order to arrive. Amazing.
One evening, heading home clutching a paper bag containing four Newcastle Brown ales, a police cruiser stopped alongside me, lights flashing, and two officers got out. They wanted to know what I had in the bag. Dumbfounded, I showed them and they seemed satisfied enough to let me continue on my way. I was so flustered, however, that when I reached our boarding house, I missed my footing on the icy steps and fell, breaking all four precious bottles! Such a waste!
There was so much to get used to: the street cars running down the middle of the road; the decimal coinage; a whole new vocabulary; the strange accents; having a choice of salad dressings; learning to look left before crossing the street; massive shopping centres; different foods; ordering a sandwich and finding it came with complimentary coleslaw.
On and on. Every day was an adventure. It was all so new and exciting.
Peter and his Canadian chum, Bob, had fun exploring Toronto together, including old Fort York.
One Saturday morning in November, friend Bob decided we should visit Buffalo, just across the border from Ontario. I was really excited because this would be my first time in the U.S.A.!
A shortish bus ride later and there we were, downtown America. I was beside myself, trying to absorb the sights, the sounds, the smells. Everything!
By noon, we were both famished so Bob decided to introduce me to one of the famous, ubiquitous Woolworth’s lunch counters. I was quite impressed, but I was even more impressed with the reception we received. Or rather, with the reception I received.
Back in England, Bob was always the centre of female attention because of his Canadian accent. I was usually relegated to the shadows.
But now the tables were turned. This being the mid-60s, anything and everything English was all the rage in the U.S. and it was me getting all the attention! (Heck, I even had to sign autographs before we were allowed to leave the diner!)
Being English and carrying a guitar in the 1960s helped get rides when Peter was hitch-hiking. (Not that he knew how to play one!)
The days passed happily exploring Toronto but by mid-December, I knew our jobs would soon be ending. We needed a plan.
“What will we do?” I asked my friend one snowy Saturday afternoon as we sat in our local tavern.
Bob was having a hard time looking me in the eye. Something was obviously up.
“Pete,” he said quietly, “I’m going back to England…”
I was stunned. “You’re w-ha-a-a-t?”
He explained that he’d met a woman during his time back in Manchester and that they’d been keeping in touch, all these months. Turns out he’d developed stronger feelings for her than he had for the Canadian woman he’d come back to be with in the first place.
“So, so…when are you leaving?” I croaked.
“Tomorrow,” he replied, still avoiding my eye.
And, true to his word, he was gone the very next day, leaving me alone, soon to be jobless and therefore homeless, and not knowing another soul in the entire country.
I could feel the panic rising. What to do? Stay and try muddling through, hoping something would turn up, or return to the safety of Mother England?
Next time: Here goes nothing!
English-born journalist Peter Duffy sailed for Canada in 1965. Something of an ink-stained nomad, Peter has worked on papers in England, Canada, New Zealand and even, briefly, Las Vegas! He retired from The Chronicle-Herald in 2009. Peter is married to Barbara and has two grown step-children. Peter is Secretary of the Royal St. George’s Society of Halif
