1 June 2026
Hello Canada: The biggest adventure of all begins
After 10 days of roaming around the Republic of Ireland, I returned home to Manchester bursting with stories to share with my work colleague and fellow hitch-hiker, Bob.
But Bob had news of his own to share. Major news.
“I’m going back to Canada,” he announced.
I was stunned. “But…but why?” I yelped. “I thought you liked working here in England.”
“I do,” he replied. “But, well, there’s this girl back in Canada…”
It seems that Bob had met her shortly before he left Toronto, bound for England. They’d kept in touch with letters and phone calls and…
“Bottom line, we’re in love,” Bob declared.
I stared at him, open-mouthed. He and I had become firm friends and we’d spent countless weekends hitch-hiking across northern England, Scotland and as far west as Dublin.
“What am I going to do without you?” I wailed.
Bob grinned. “Well, why don’t you come with me?” he said. “Canada’s a great place and we can continue our adventures over there!”
And that was how, in late September 1965, at the ripe-old age of 22, I found myself aboard the good ship Empress of Canada, heading for the New World.
Peter’s Mum, Dad and sister Norma, see him off from Liverpool, bound for the New World.
My parents and my sister were sad to see me go but they did their best not to show their pain, something for which I am so grateful to this very day. They helped with the finances while my grandfather sprang for a new suit, just in case I got married while I was away. He also gave me two pieces of advice:
“Never gamble for money,” he told me solemnly, “and never forget that you are English.”
I never have.
Even the actual Canadian immigration process was simple. All I needed was a valid passport and a medical certificate proving I didn’t have TB. Not only that, the Canadian government paid for my $200 one-way ship’s ticket, on the understanding that I would repay the amount when I got a job. Which I did, at $10 a week.
The Empress of Canada, carrying hundreds of Brits to a new life in Canada.
The voyage to Canada took a little over five days, five wonderful, carefree days. The whole trip felt like a vacation – until we sailed up the St. Lawrence River and the enormity of what I was doing began to sink in. Good grief, who’s going to do my laundry now? Who’s going to make my meals? How do I find a job? What am I doing here??
On that last morning, we all crowded to the ship’s railing to watch Quebec City, our first stop, come into view and I felt my panic growing. Standing next to me, an older woman, a Canadian, must have sensed my distress. She leaned over to me.
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “It’s like coming home.”
And those few, kind words eased my anxiety. (And proved so true as the years passed.)
We docked a few miles outside Quebec City and were told that we had to disembark to clear Canadian Customs and Immigration. We were to be allowed three hours for processing then had to be back onboard to sail onwards to our final destination, Montreal.
Obediently, I walked off the ship and joined hundreds of other Brits waiting to enter the government shed for processing. The lineup was long and it was taking forever. My impatience was growing. Now that I was finally here, I wanted to get a look at Canada but there wouldn’t be time because I was so far from the front of the line.
In the distance, I could see a busy highway and I got the sudden urge to see my first North American cars. I’d long been captivated by those huge beasts, thanks to the American TV programs I’d watched growing up. With their fins and chrome, those vehicles were so exciting, compared to the small, bland English cars back home.
Obviously, there was only one thing to do. Stepping over the rope, I left the lineup, hustled across the yard and up a small grassy incline to the highway. And stood there hypnotized by the passing traffic. Slowly, I made my way along until I found an empty bus bay and stuck out my thumb. Old habits die hard and Quebec City was calling me.
Within 15 minutes, I got a lift and was soon downtown, sitting in a tavern chatting with locals in my schoolboy French. Which meant, of course, that they couldn’t understand me and I couldn’t understand them! But we were getting along just fine with lots of smiles and toasts.
Ah yes, I thought contentedly, welcome to Canada and yes please, I will have another beer!
My happiness was shattered by a distant rumbling roar of a ship’s horn. It was the Empress, getting ready to sail! I’d completely forgotten the three-hour deadline we’d been given.
One of my new Quebec City friends came to my rescue. He threw me into his car and drove madly to the dock, where I jumped out and staggered up the gangplank. To be met by an unsmiling RCMP officer holding a clipboard.
“Is your name Duffy?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You have been ashore illegally,” he declared. “You could be arrested for this.”
But instead of arresting me, he marched me to the purser’s office where the equally unimpressed Canadian customs and immigration officials processed me after reading me the Riot Act.
And so it was that Mrs. Duffy’s only son arrived in Canada, with all-kinds of official reprimands ringing in his ears.
And a big smile on his face…
Next time: A serious set-back in Toronto. To stay in Canada or return home? Decisions, decisions.
English-born journalist Peter Duffy sailed for Canada in 1965, took a liking to what he saw and stayed. 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. Today, he’s happy pottering in the basement with his model train layout. Peter is Secretary of the Royal St. George’s Society of Halifax.
