With recreational cannabis consumption set to become legal in less than eight weeks, this Mostly Amazing series explores 11 places across the land that are best experienced with a buzz.

Approaching the summit, one final hurdle lay ahead. It wasn't the steep, crumbling slope under my feet. Nor was it the blazing midday sun. As I climbed the dune in Eastern Ontario's Sandbanks Provincial Park, my greatest challenge was the all-dressed bacon cheeseburger, onion rings and chocolate milkshake I had just devoured outside the snack bar.

Just as mountaineers acclimatize to altitude, I stopped and waited for the grease rush to subside. Then, heartened by what awaited beyond the dune's 10-metre peak, I scrambled up the sandy mound, paperback in one hand, towel in the other.

I had seen the view from atop the dunes dozens of times before, either on a sand-seeking expedition out of Toronto, or on "Picton Day," the June exodus of class-cutting teens from my former hometown of Kingston. On this perfect summer Saturday, it encompassed blue skies, calm Lake Ontario waters and white sands framed by stands of eastern cottonwood trees, a picture that solidified Sandbanks as my favourite Canadian beach. The sand and scenery of some East and West Coast beaches may compare — PEI's Cavendish and Vancouver's English Bay spring to mind — but Sandbanks' summer is reliably hot and sunny, and the water is fresh, calm and surprisingly warm. If, like me, you often crave a splashy game of paddle ball — that free-form, co-ed pursuit of the Frisbee-fatigued — you'll only be up to your waist in water more than 100 metres offshore, owing to the gentle, child-friendly slope out of East Lake (which is actually a bay).

Unlike much of surrounding Prince Edward County, which has seen a spate of development in recent years, little has changed at Sandbanks since I first arrived here in someone else's parent's minivan more than 25 years ago. The drive past the main entrance still winds pleasantly through thick maple forest. The aforementioned snack bar still serves up the thickest milkshakes around thanks to the staff's perennial lack of blender-awareness. And on a prime summer weekend, the park's Outlet, Sandbanks and Campers beaches are still busy, but not maddeningly so. After all, there's plenty of real estate: The 11 kilometres of beaches and dunes form two of the largest freshwater bay-mouth sandbars in the world.

Arriving at noon, it was easy to find a sunny spot devoid of errant Frisbees and sand-encrusted toddlers. Spreading out mats and towels, and unfolding lounge chairs — my wife Angela and I are confessed beach-accoutrement addicts — we settled into an afternoon of doing very, very little.
Once again, I noticed that time and sound perform strange tricks when one is prostrate on the beach. A lively conversation among a group of nearby teenagers — "Dude, man, my wakeboard is sick!" — soon became a melodious trickle interspersed with the noise of splashing kids and squawking gulls. This was followed by an irresistible snooze, a groggy awakening and feigned surprise that two hours had passed in what felt like five minutes.

Read the rest of the story in the Globe and Mail.

I’m almost looking forward to my family’s 22-hour flight from Toronto to Auckland. The 17-hour time difference? I can do that in my sleep (which I suppose is the point). Driving on the left along some of the world’s more-challenging roads? After Costa Rica, Sicily, Scotland and Roger’s Pass, a New Zealand road trip sounds like a breeze. (Knock on wood.)

With exactly two weeks to go until our departure, only three hours of the month-long trip give me pause: Those we will spend crossing the Cook Strait. The passage between New Zealand’s North and South islands is considered one of the world’s most dangerous, unpredictable and roughest stretches of water. That said, I have complete faith in our ferry: It weighs more than 14,000 tonnes, so the chances of it sinking, even with my wife’s and daughters’ luggage on board, are miniscule. (Knock on wood.)

More than anything else, I dread a repeat of our 2004 cruise to Italy’s famously volcanic island of Stromboli.

The Ionian Sea was angry that day my friends, but it took awhile for it to evoke an old man trying to send back soup in a deli. Our eight-hour tour started out sunny and mellow, like an elderly Deadhead selling “medicinal herbs” out of the back of a VW Van. Our 50-foot cabin cruiser, the Zephyr, was full to bursting as it motored out of Lipari Harbour toward the nearby island of Panarea, where we stopped briefly to potter around the Bougainvillea-draped village. At this point, the blue skies, light winds and calm waters gave no hint of the insanity to come.

A few minutes later, Stromboli -- aka the "Lighthouse of the Mediterranean" -- loomed into full view. The compact conical isle is home to one of Italy’s three active volcanoes, with minor eruptions often visible from its surroundings.

Or so we were told. As if on cue, thick clouds rolled in as soon as we docked at the village of San Vincenzo. A side-voyage to the lighthouse-topped islet of Strombolicchio would provide the best views of Stromboli’s three smoldering calderas, our guides said, but with the summit now completely obscured we could only stare morosely at the darkening skies from atop the boat’s cabin and note how suddenly the wind had gone from strong to cyclonic, how quickly the light chop had turned into eight-foot swells, how thoroughly soaked our linen pants were getting, how…

“Attenzione!” hollered a crewmember as he poked his head up the stairs. “Everyone, per favore, down below now!”

We didn’t have to be told twice. In a matter of seconds, all of the 80-odd passengers were huddled around patio tables in the Zephyr’s main cabin. The crew, meanwhile, was busy securing loose rigging, battening down hatches, and handing out plastic bags.

I’m not sure if “chain reaction” accurately describes what happened next, what with the Zephyr rocking side-to-side like a hammock in a hurricane. What I do know for sure, and what haunts me to this day, is that my wife was the first to puke.

When a person hurls, bystanders typically jump out of the way and cry out in dismay and disgust. But not on this nightmarish afternoon. Paralysed by nausea, I could only watch in horror as my fellow passengers followed Ang’s lead and succumbed to seasickness one by one. Within minutes, the crew was passing barf-bags hand-over-fist from the cabin to the stern, where they were tossed into the raging surf.

Her head in my lap -- and not in a good way -- Angela proceeded to coat my lower extremities with the remains of her lunch. Everywhere I looked, passengers were upchucking into bags, onto the floor, onto each other and onto themselves. It was a Boschian hellscape of vomit.

Inexplicably, my bride was the sole puker at our table. The rest of us, green-faced and wide-eyed, stared desperately at the darkening horizon, occasionally making eye contact and mouthing the words “please...kill me” to each other.

This went on for about an hour, but it felt like a Jovian century. Then, as suddenly as it started, the storm abated, the towering waves vanished, and the queasiness disappeared. We had finally made it back to Lipari Harbour!

Angela’s head popped up from under the table, her bedraggled mop reminiscent of Courtney Love’s on a horrendous hair day. “Well,” she quipped, “that was all very sophisticated.”

So you can understand my Cook Strait trepidation. Ang can’t be faulted for her seasickness on the Zephyr, but that incident seems to have started something. Since then, she has turned green on the Toronto Island Airport Ferry, which sails all of 100 metres, as well as on the decommissioned HMSC Haida warship that’s permanently docked in Hamilton Harbour. It sure doesn’t help that my eldest daughter seems to have inherited the instant-seasickness gene from her mom.

Thankfully, I have a plan: When I board the Straitsman in Wellington, there will be gobs of Gravol, and dozens of barf bags, in the vomit-proof pockets of my new Hazmat suit.

Travel elicits many emotions, from awe to anger and from upgrade ecstasy to gift-shop remorse. But over the course of my Canadian wanderings there’s something more: Pride. That's what this series is all about: Sharing my proud perspective on the places and experiences that make my country the greatest on Earth. Some of my selections are world-famous, others are little-known and a few are acquired tastes. The insights offered below, meanwhile, may come in handy for the 4.2 zillion people converging on Canada’s capital tomorrow...

​It’s fitting that Ottawa’s skyline is still dominated by Parliament Hill’s Peace Tower. Many other trappings of federal and international government are prominent in the home of my alma mater — Go Ravens! — such as the Royal Canadian Mint, the Prime Minister’s official residence, and the Governor General’s estate. Combine all this history and ceremony with the country’s densest collection of world-class museums, and Ottawa succeeds in making Canadians proud — and visitors a little bit jealous.

Don’t leave without...
...climbing the Peace Tower on Parliament Hill. Free elevator trips to the observation deck below the four 15-foot-wide clock faces resume July 2, and provide glorious panoramic views of the region from 200 feet up. Guided tours of the Hill’s Centre Block, meanwhile, allow visitors to explore the neo-Gothic Senate and House of Commons, as well as the ornate Library of Parliament and stirring Memorial Chamber.
...visiting the National Gallery of Canada. A short walk from Parliament, this soaring architectural masterpiece is home to six expansive gallery spaces, including a Canadian collection featuring iconic works by the Group of Seven, and a European gallery filled with paintings by geniuses like Van Gogh, Cezanne and Rembrandt. There’s a lot of artistic glory to take in, so it’s a good thing the place is so comfortable, with a pair of peaceful landscaped courtyards, a relaxing cafeteria and intimate bookstore tucked behind the skyscraping glass windows of the Great Hall.
...strolling or skating along the Rideau Canal. Before it spills into the city’s namesake river via a spectacular flight of eight locks, this 190-km-long engineering marvel and World Heritage Site is lined with cycle paths, restaurants and pubs, parks and gardens, all of which provide ideal vantage points for admiring many of the landmarks on this list.

What we overlook
The aspects of Ottawa that aren’t all about Canada tend to fall by the wayside. Just across the river in Quebec, for instance, leafy Gatineau Park is a hiker’s, cyclist’s and skier’s dream, while the Casino du Lac Leamy is an adults-only playground with gaming galore, top-notch dining, decadent spas and a 1,100-seat theatre. In the city itself, the diversions that get plenty of attention from locals — the beaches and volleyball courts of Mooney's Bay Park, for instance, or the recently revamped Lansdowne recreation complex — tend to get skipped by visitors.

Locals only
Waterfront holiday homes abound just outside of Ottawa, but you don’t need to own recreational real estate to get in on the action. Gatineau Park is home to dozens of sandy beaches, and you can take a relaxing dip in “The Pond,” a secret swimming hole tucked into the ritzy Rockcliffe Park neighbourhood off the aptly named Pond Street. Then there's the Capital Pathway network, one of the largest multi-use trails in North America with more than 600 kilometres of car-free goodness connecting many of the attractions on this list.

Family
Why cross the Atlantic to get a taste of royalty when you can sample its trappings at Rideau Hall, the official residence and workplace of Canada’s Governor General? The Queen’s representative in Canada has some pretty sweet digs: The opulent public rooms and multi-million-dollar art collection will impress grown-ups, while the expansive outdoor grounds, complete with cricket pitch, skating rink and Alice in Wonderland-style Rose Garden, will enthral youngsters. Children will also get a kick out of the changing of the guard — and the towering headgear worn by the guardsmen. 

Hip Hoods
Convenience and charm collide in the Byward Market, a 26-block shopping district sandwiched between Parliament Hill, the Ottawa River and the multi-storey Rideau Centre shopping mall. It’s home to one of the oldest agricultural markets in Canada, but don’t expect just farmers and fishmongers here. Depending on the season, the market building itself often overflows with stands selling everything from wild blackberries to hand-made bracelets. The surrounding streets, meanwhile, are lined with boutiques, restaurants, clubs and taverns, which spill into a series of open-air courtyards that will be rocking on July 1.
Bank Street, one of Ottawa’s main thoroughfares, is also the principal artery running through the Glebe neighbourhood south of downtown. Boutiques, pubs and restaurants line the streetscape here, with the multi-purpose Lansdowne Park — home to the CFL’s Grey Cup Champion Redblacks — bordering the Glebe to the south and the picturesque, park-lined Rideau Canal marking its eastern border.

Culture
The stark modern design of the Canadian War Museum evokes a bunker, the grass-covered roof a battlefield, and small windows on a towering rooftop fin spell out "Lest we forget" in Morse Code. Inside, the permanent galleries display items including one of Adolph Hitler’s Mercedes limousines, while covering conflicts ranging from First Nations battles and the War of 1812 to the Cold War and Afghanistan. The highlight, however, is the Memorial Hall, a space for remembrance and contemplation containing a single artifact: the headstone of Canada’s Unknown Soldier from the First World War.

Read the rest of the story in International Traveller magazine

WHERE TO STAY
The Courtyard Ottawa Downtown, located in the heart of the Byward Market, features an on-site Bistro where you can turn a Marriott Rewards dining card into the most patriotic of Canadian beverage. (Hint: It’s beer.)

Travel elicits many emotions, from awe to anger and from upgrade ecstasy to gift-shop remorse. But over the course of my Canadian wanderings there’s something more: Pride. That's what this daily series is all about: Sharing my proud perspective on the places and experiences that make my country the greatest on Earth. Some of my selections are world-famous, others are little-known, a few are acquired tastes, and this one is once again home to some of the finest milkshakes on the planet.

As I approached the summit, one final hurdle lay ahead. It wasn't the steep, crumbling slope under my feet. Nor was it the blazing midday sun. No — as I climbed the dune in Eastern Ontario's Sandbanks Provincial Park, my greatest challenge was the all-dressed bacon cheeseburger, onion rings and chocolate milkshake I had just devoured outside the snack bar.

Just as mountaineers acclimatize to altitude, I stopped and waited for the grease rush to subside. Then, heartened by what awaited beyond the dune's 10-metre peak, I scrambled up the sandy mound, paperback in one hand, towel in the other.

I had seen the view from atop the dunes dozens of times before, either on a sand-seeking expedition out of Toronto, or on "Picton Day," the June exodus of class-cutting teens from my former hometown of Kingston. On this perfect summer Saturday, it encompassed blue skies, calm Lake Ontario waters and white sands framed by stands of eastern cottonwood trees, a picture that solidified Sandbanks as my favourite Canadian beach. The sand and scenery of some East and West Coast beaches may compare — PEI's Cavendish and Vancouver's English Bay spring to mind — but Sandbanks' summer is reliably hot and sunny, and the water is fresh, calm and surprisingly warm. If, like me, you often crave a splashy game of paddle ball — that free-form, co-ed pursuit of the Frisbee-fatigued — you'll only be up to your waist in water more than 100 metres offshore, owing to the three beaches' gentle, child-friendly slope out of East Lake (which is actually a bay).

Unlike much of surrounding Prince Edward County, which has seen a spate of development in recent years, little has changed at Sandbanks since I first arrived here in someone else's parent's minivan more than 25 years ago. The drive past the main entrance still winds pleasantly through thick maple forest. The aforementioned snack bar still serves up the thickest milkshakes around thanks to the staff's perennial lack of blender-awareness. And on a prime summer weekend, the park's Outlet, Sandbanks and Campers beaches are still busy, but not maddeningly so. After all, there's plenty of real estate: The 11 kilometres of beaches and dunes form two of the largest freshwater bay-mouth sandbars in the world.

Arriving at noon, it was easy to find a sunny spot devoid of errant Frisbees and sand-encrusted toddlers. Spreading out mats and towels, and unfolding lounge chairs — my wife Angela and I are confessed beach-accoutrement addicts — we settled into an afternoon of doing very, very little.
Once again, I noticed that time and sound perform strange tricks when one is prostrate on the beach. A lively conversation among a group of nearby teenagers — "Dude, man, my wakeboard is sick!" — soon became a melodious trickle interspersed with the noise of splashing kids and squawking gulls. This was followed by an irresistible snooze, a groggy awakening and feigned surprise that two hours had passed in what felt like five minutes.

Read the rest of the story in the Globe and Mail.

WHERE TO STAY
If camping or B&Bs aren't your thing, the TownePlace Suites Belleville is 45 minutes away by car and features suites with full kitchens, an indoor pool and hot tub, and free Wi-Fi and breakfast.

Travel elicits many emotions, from awe to anger and from upgrade ecstasy to gift-shop remorse. But over the course of my Canadian wanderings, there’s something more: Pride. That's what this 30-part series is all about: Sharing my proud perspective on the 30 places and experiences that make my country the greatest on Earth. Some of my daily selections are world-famous, others are little-known, and a few are acquired tastes. My first one, however, begins with a plea:
 
Please, Mother Nature, lay off the Toronto Islands for a while, OK?
 
Some of the best features of the city's best feature are struggling. With recent flooding restricting ferry access, the Island Cafe has laid off staff. Even worse, the nearby Rectory Cafe has revealed that it is shutting down after this season owing to financial trouble brought about by the rising waters.
 
The good news: There’s nothing stopping you from enjoying a pitcher of sangria on the Island Cafe’s airy patio, or a Wellington County striploin on the Rectory’s leafy terrace. While ferries to Centre Island and Hanlan’s Point have suspended operations until at least June 30, the Ward’s Island ferry is still running. Service is limited to “residents and their guests, staff, and emergency personnel,” according to the City of Toronto, but this is easily circumvented in three ways: One, take a water taxi. Two, simply tell ferry staff that you are dining at either spot and you will be allowed to board. Three, paddle over yourself, as I did just last week. As you can see from the top photo, the flooding is striking and worth checking out. Does it hinder the dining experience? Not at all.
 
Supporting these wonderful eateries in tough times is far from the only reason to explore the Islands. Let me ask you this: How far from downtown Toronto is the bucolic waterway pictured above? Two hours by car (or five on a summer Friday)? Fifty minutes by float plane? Believe it or not, this verdant, mellow spot on Ward’s is less than 20 minutes by ferry from the foot of Bay Street.
 
I’ve learned a lot about the quirky archipelago since I first visited more than 20 years ago. Did you know, for instance, that Babe Ruth hit his first professional home run out of Hanlan's Point Stadium in 1914? But my Island education hasn’t been limited to T.O. trivia. Here are six key lessons I’ve learned:
 
They are Hogtown's hidden gem
It amazes me how many Torontonians say they have never visited the Islands, or have only ever checked out the fun and kitschy Centreville Amusement Park or the clothing-optional Hanlan's Point Beach. After all, there’s so much more to the place than bumper-boats and CN Tower-themed thongs. With leafy pedestrian laneways and adorably rustic homes, Ward’s and Algonquin islands are like little slices of Ontario cottage country — but with some striking differences…
 
Downtown shines from the lake
The northern shores offer unparalleled, unobstructed views of the Toronto skyline. On warm evenings my family often carries a cooler to one of the picnic tables lining Algonquin’s leafy shore to revel in the surreal proximity of the concrete, glass and steel jungle. From the Gardiner Expressway it can seem dystopian. From the islands, it looks like Emerald City.
 
Deluxe digs on the doorstep
B&Bs and cottage rentals are the only overnight options on the Islands. But with the Westin Harbour Castle practically on top of the mainland ferry dock, all the comforts and amenities of a luxury hotel — including perks such as free Wi-Fi for Marriott Rewards members — are just a ferry ride, water-taxi fare or canoe rental away.
 
No cars, no stress
Being almost entirely free of motorized vehicles, the Islands are bicycle-centric and perfect for young kids like mine. Every time I climb in the car to drive home from the mainland ferry dock, I am reminded of how nice it is to eschew internal combustion engines for even a few hours.
 
Free (disc) golf!
Ward’s is home to one of the world’s premier disc golf courses, a 6,925-foot, 18-basket stretch of bucolic parkland. It hosted the Professional Disc Golf Association’s World Championships back in 1986 — six years after the course was established — and each July hosts the pro-am Toronto Island Open. Let’s hope waters subside enough for the event to take place this year.
 
Ward's Beach rules
The clean, compact and uncrowded stretch of sand on the south side of Ward's is arguably the city's finest, especially for families. The ferry dock is a five-minute walk away, lifeguards abound, toilets are mere steps away, and you gaze out onto nothing but Lake Ontario, the parkland of the adjacent Leslie Spit, and boats that are either passing or anchored in the small bay. Again, fingers crossed that full beach operations resume soon.

Does anything say "Summer in Ontario" like cliff-jumping into a lake? For the record, I've never backed down from one of these leaps, but not because I'm some kind of fearless daredevil. (To my credit, I am one of the few men who has survived a "Mystical Water Ride.")

The key: I know my limit. I never want to be that guy -- and I'm personally acquainted with a few of them -- who hums and haws at the top of a drop only to end up opting for the "balk of shame."

I've jumped off countless cliffs into dozens of lakes and rivers across Ontario and Quebec cottage-country -- Kahshe and Go Home lakes are two of my personal favourites -- but none have topped out at more than 20 feet. Then there's Rick's Bar in Negril, Jamaica, where I plunged 35 feet from the famous cliffs upon which the tavern is perched. It was there that I officially established my cliff-jumping (and Pina Colada) upper limit, and realized that some jumpers appear to have no upper limits, as evidenced by locals who nearly doubled the drop by leaping from spindly trees topping the cliffs.

This brings me to Devin “Supertramp” Graham, who has made something of a career out of acrobatic cliff-jumping around the world. Indeed, Contiki Tours' new Contiki Legends campaign includes a video of Graham doing his thing along Italy's glorious Amalfi Coast. Check it out above. It is...bonkers.

Contiki also posted a list of "8 Amazing Cliff Diving Spots Around the World," which I've pasted below. Turns out Rick's Bar is one of them, so I left it out. That means there are seven jumps remaining on my bucket list. The photos alone (in the gallery at the end) are worth the price of admission. Which just happens to be zero dollars and zero cents. You can thank me by refraining from heckling if you ever see me make the balk of shame...

FURORE BRIDGE, FURORE, ITALY
Furore, known locally as "Neverland," is a small village on the steep cliffs of a fjord. The Fjord of Furore is easily one of the most striking things about the area, where water erosion has created stunning cliffs that overhang the ocean. Then there's the Furore Bridge, where diving championships are held annually and where you can jump 90 feet into the water.

SERPENT'S LAIR, INIS MOR, IRELAND
This 92-foot drop attracts cliff divers from around the world, and even played host to championships in recent years. It's been described as a "leap of faith," because all you see is rock until a few seconds after you've jumped.

CRATER LAKE, CRATER LAKE NATIONAL PARK, OREGON
Crater Lake is the deepest lake in the U.S., so you don't need to worry about hitting the bottom nearly 2,000 feet below the surface.

THE AZURE WINDOW, GOZO, MALTA
This 92-foot-high arch consists of yellow to pale-grey limestone, and was used as a shooting location in Season 1 of Game of Thrones.

GEOJE ISLAND, SOUTH KOREA
Have your pick of impressive granite rock faces to throw yourself from. If you're in to that kind of thing.

LAKE VOULIAGMENI, GREECE
This amazing spot, locally referred to as "Sunken Lake," maintains a 24°C water temperature year round and is said to be haunted by numerous mystical creatures (just to make it even scarier).

STARI MOST, MOSTAR, BOSNIA
Nestled within the Bosnian city of Mostar is the Stari Most, or "Old Bridge," over the river Neretva, where for decades locals and tourists alike have jumped into the freezing water to the applause of those on the banks of the river below.