Needless to say, I’m a tad miffed when I look out of the small window of the plane and see blinding sunshine instead of a swirling snowstorm. This wasn’t how I’d pictured the start of my new life, remembering the Calgary airport I’d seen in films. Jamaican bobsleigh team anyone? As if to rub my face in it, a man driving one of the baggage trucks on the tarmac outside is wearing shorts and sunglasses as he trundles past.

Canadians are obviously crazy. No Englishman in his right mind would wear shorts in November, no matter how warm it is. Yes, bright sunshine is one thing, but the pilot did say it was about ten degrees outside; not exactly tropical, if you ask me. Then again, I won’t even think about getting my legs out in public until at least mid-June and even then, they’re practically translucent with whiteness. I look like a walking Tip-Ex bottle.

My aching body is crying for a proper stretch and I really don’t think I can listen to Marjorie jabber on for much longer. Having peeled myself off the evil seat that’s been torturing me for the last eight hours and 25 minutes, I stand up and bump my head on the base of the overhead locker. I really, really want to get off the darn plane now.

My stomach churns nervously as I follow the other passengers to the arrivals area, noticing an abundance of red and white flags with the symbolic maple leaf everywhere. As if endorsing my previous observation that Canadians are a little on the mad side, I turn the corner to be faced with the sight of a woman wearing the biggest white cowboy hat I have ever seen.

‘Welcome to Cal-garee! If you have inny questions, you just let me know. Elevators are on the left!’ she shouts with apparent glee, an enthusiastic smile plastered to her rosy face. The badge on her red and white uniform reads ‘Host’ and because I’m a polite Brit and I’ve been brought up properly, I can’t help but return her wide grin with a bemused smile of my own as I scurry past, giving the hat a very wide birth. The last time I landed at Gatwick or Heathrow, I remember the first thing that greeted me was a suicidal-looking passport control officer and a massive line of disgruntled people from Zimbabwe. What a difference a few thousand miles can make. I often think a tourist’s first impressions of the UK must be thoroughly depressing – especially if they land in a major London airport. No wonder the whole world thinks we’re a nation obsessed with queuing.

The feeling of walking and stretching my legs after being cramped for so long is blissful, as is escaping from the delightfully batty Marjorie. The journey hasn’t been all bad. So far, I’ve been in the country for a total of eight hours (seven hours and fifty-two minutes of those on the plane) and I’ve been welcomed three times already. My guidebook is right on the money so far… Canada is a very welcoming place.

I search through my rucksack for the customs form I carefully filled in mid-flight and join the rest of the passengers in a large windowless room, where we’re all waiting to walk past the large red line painted on the beige floor. Is it just me, or no matter which airport you find yourself in, an immigration/customs/security hall is likely to be lit like a prison and definitely feels claustrophobic, even though it’s always the size of a football stadium? There is always a queue, naturally, and I will always choose the one that moves at a snails pace. For once, I’m grateful for the extra minutes as I double and triple check that I have everything ready. It’s not every day that you arrive in a foreign country with the sole intention of staying put for a while. This morning felt like it happened a month ago, when I’d said a tearful goodbye to Mum and Evie, while they desperately tried to reassure me that I’m doing the right thing.

Have I done the right thing? Perhaps a little late for that question now. I can hardly turn on my heel and get a flight back to Blighty. That would be…. the old me. The Lexie that got stuck in a rut in her job and her relationship without even realise that things were a bit rubbish. My fingers curl around the familiar smooth shape of the mobile phone in my bag – my last connection to Henry and the life I’ve just bolted away from.Before I have time for more deep-breathing exercises, I’m crossing the red line and my form is dealt with swiftly, given a cursory one-over, minor questions asked and I’m nonchalantly waved through to Immigration.

The twinkly-eyed man behind the desk is actually smiling at me when I approach his counter. I’m a pretty gangly girl – just under six foot tall (which I’ve always been grateful for) but if this counter is chest high on me then Canada must be full of tall, strapping, healthy citizens. Well, the arrivals hall is full of white teeth, tans and again, an abundance of short trousers. What is it with the shorts in November? But I digress. I’m just really nervous now. You know when things are going too smoothly? Well, I’m the eternal pessimist. If things are going very well, then I have an in-built radar that tells me not to get too comfortable – it’s probably about to go tits up.

“Ms McGinty? Your name has been entered into the national security computer system and I’m afraid there seems to be a problem… something regarding a Rover Metro parked in a residents-permit-only bay during the Notting Hill Carnival?”

That would just be bloody typical.

I’m pretty sure Canada’s Homeland Security team, or whatever they call themselves, are a tad more focused on important things.

‘Hey there, welcome to Canada. Are you here for business or pleasure?’ the officer, whose nametag reads ‘Bob’ asks me, very pleasantly. He is a very smiley chap is Bob - and he’s not pulling off one of those fake-dead-eyes smiles, but a genuine ‘beamy’ grin. He reminds me of my Grandpa, God rest him, which makes me feel instantly better.

I smile back, handing over my passport. ‘Er. Hi Bob. I’m here for some long-term snowboarding. I bet you hear that a lot.’

‘You could say that, yes.’ He smiles, flipping through my passport and scrutinising every page. ‘What I don’t get is, how do you kids afford it?’

‘You’re definitely on my Christmas Card list…’ I joke. ‘I haven’t been referred to as a kid for a very long time…’

He chuckles, so I decide to carry on talking. ‘You probably don’t want to hear the gory details, but I got made redundant from my job, got a bit of money and decided to change my life. And I’m….going to stop there.’ I reply, conscious that I might be getting close to an over-share if I start telling him about Henry. It might end in tears.

He grins. ‘You picked a great place to come if you want to readjust your work/life balance. Just don’t get too comfortable, eh. I don’t want have to come looking for you when you don’t leave in six months time.’

‘That happens a lot, right?’ I ask, thinking that the new, carefree me is all well and good, but breaking the law is not first on my list of priorities. ‘I absolutely promise that I won’t do any work while I’m here – part-time or otherwise.’ I add hastily.

‘I guess that’s Canada’s fault for being such a great place to live.’ he says, stamping official-looking red bits all over my passport while I take a surreptitious glance at the people behind me in the queue, some of whom were on my flight. I was eavesdropping earlier and I overheard a young couple talking excitedly about their plans. At the time, I wondered if I should pluck up the courage to ask them where they were going, but I didn’t want to come off as the needy new girl. They look like the type that would do a ski season somewhere – wearing expensive new walking boots and fleece jackets. I look down gloomily at my grubbiest grey (once white) Converse trainers (number three of five pairs) and it suddenly dawns on me that they are possibly the least practical shoes to wear in the snow. In my defence, I’d hardly had time to think about practicalities, stuffing as much as I could into my snowboard bag and rucksack.

As Bob moves over to another counter, I can’t help but notice the rather large gun that is holstered to his immaculately pressed trouser leg, making me gulp loudly.

“This is so not going to be easy…” I grumble quietly to myself, trying to stop my fingers from drumming on my rucksack. I guess it’s the little unfamiliar things that remind me that I’m not in Kansas anymore. Like live ammunition.

I’m distracted by the sound of urgent yapping, and I look over at a very fat man who is gesturing through the bars of a small cage at his feet, making soothing noises. I am a real sucker for animals. I hope the poor thing hasn’t been stuck in a cargo hold for too long. I love anything cute and furry, including rats (much to Evie’s disgust) but anything of the canine variety turns me into a pile of mush. I’ve been known to gaze adoringly in the direction of the dog, completely oblivious to the sweaty hunk running with it in our local park. Roads have been crossed to make sure I’m on the same side of the street as a dog walker and his or her pooch.

I find that many a pleasant conversation has been struck up through my love of animals. People that like animals are generally a nice bunch and if you were to tell me that you weren’t that keen on pets, I would judge you pretty harshly… especially if you didn’t have a valid excuse like being attacked by a swan as a child or something similar. If you don’t like our furry friends, then I don’t really like you, unless the circumstances are exceptional. I wonder if Bob would miss me if I went and said a quick hello to whatever’s yapping.

‘Er, Ms McGinty? I’ve finished your paperwork.’

‘Sorry. Got distracted by the dog.’

‘Poor little guy. Hope he hasn’t been in there too long.’ Bob replies, beaming at me again. I just want to give him a big cuddle. Maybe if I ask sweetly, he’ll adopt me.

‘Okey dokey. Everything seems to be fine here.’ He continues, handing my passport back.

Phew… “Really?’

‘Don’t look so surprised! Now for the mean part.’ He says, his voice suddenly deepening as he frowns. ‘It is my duty to warn you that if you are caught working illegally, you will be escorted to the nearest airport and deported. And you can never come back again – are we clear?’

I nod vigorously. ‘Can I travel back to England if I need to, during my stay?’ No harm in checking.

‘Yes, you can. I very much hope that enjoy your stay with us.’

Bob doesn’t quite understand the magnitude of what he said. It’s like he’s welcoming me to a hotel, rather than a vast country that’s home to 33 million people. I find that figure astounding. I read that on the plane and double-checked with Marjorie, the Oracle pensioner, that it wasn’t a miss-print because for a country the size of Canada to have that few people in it compared to the UK – well, that’s just bonkers. I’m surprised there are even more than 50 people in the airport at one time. The population of Greater London is estimated at 15 million. It takes eight hours to fly from one side of Canada to the other. It takes all of four hours to drive across the United Kingdom. There’s that wobbly feeling again.

‘Are you okay?’ Bob asks, looking even more like a concerned Grandparent. ‘You look a little pale.’

‘Oh, yes! Yes! I’m fine!’ I exclaim hurriedly, grabbing my bag and flashing him a large smile. ‘Just a bit tired… long flight.’

I hurry away as quickly as I can (kind of tricky with a bulky snowboard bag to wheel along), certain that if I hang around any longer, someone will point a large gun at me. That, or Henry’s already put out a Missing-And-Mentally-Unstable-Person call on me via Interpol.

I step out of the airport building and inhale my first bit of fresh Canadian air - something I’ve been really been looking forward to. I cough and splutter as a large Greyhound Bus trundles past, belching out exhaust smoke. Not quite the romantic vision I had in mind as I bend down and check my luggage, pulling out some tissues from my rucksack.

‘You looking for a cab, Miss?’

I smile up at the taxi driver, trying to look like I’ve got everything under control as I nearly trip over my board bag. ‘Thanks, but no. I’m heading to Fraser. Er, you don’t happen to know where the bus goes from, do you?’

He nods and points past the row of cabs. ‘Sure – just over there. There’s a big sign. Can’t miss it… Say, are you from Australia? Must be tired after that long flight, eh?’

Now, why on earth would this helpful man think I’m an Aussie? Has being in Canada for a few hours affected my Queen’s English already?

‘Er, no.’ I reply. “I’m from the UK. London, to be precise…Thank you for the help.’ I add, giving him a little wave before I turn in the direction he pointed.

Making my way along the pavement, I notice that small groups of people are gathering around a number of coaches parked up – I’ve seen Tom Cruise board that Greyhound in ‘Cocktail’ more times than is actually healthy and it feels like a thrill to be doing the same thing. Who knew a little bus journey could be so exciting? I walk slowly past every coach, peering up at the large signs in the window and eventually spot the right one, holding onto the booking form in my jacket pocket.

There is a grey-haired man wearing a blue uniform and stowing bags under the bus so I put two and two together and figure he’s in charge.

‘Heading to Fraser Mountain?’ I ask, chirpily. He doesn’t even look at me, but he gestures to the piles of luggage around us.

‘Put your bags here, I’ll load them onto the bus.’

‘Ok...’ I reply, worrying about my precious board. I hover around, trying to blend in with a large group chattering loudly. They are definitely Aussies or Kiwis, from the sounds of the accents.

There are quite a few snowboard bags lying around the driver, and he’s just about to move mine so I try and help. However, I forget how bloody heavy it is when I’m not wheeling it around, and klutz that I am, I almost topple backwards again.

‘Some help I’m being…’ I say, grinning at the driver. He mutters under his breath and yanks the bag away from me, giving me a flinty-eyed look.

‘Y’alright there, mate?’ A large, tanned hand comes from nowhere and grabs the other strap of the bag, which is deftly slid into the compartment, next to all the others.

‘Thanks very much.’ I pant, looking up to see a man smiling down at me, white teeth framed against a tanned, pleasant face.

‘No worries, love.’ he winks, before turning and going back to the larger group. If that was my chance to say hello and integrate with him and his friends, I think I just blew it.

I settle into my seat in the middle of the bus, grateful that nobody is booked next to me so I can stretch out. As we drive out of the city, I take a peek at the other passengers on the bus whilst trying not to stare and come off as Billy-no-mates. The large group of antipodeans are at the back, still chatting loudly with each other. I feel like it’s the first day of school again and I have no friends.

I wonder if I should just be brave and go say hello, but it seems like too much of a challenge. Probably not as much as the challenge of switching on my mobile and facing the music, so I turn to look out of the window. I gaze at the scenery outside. We’ve barely left the city and a large, majestic mountain range seems to have reared up out of nowhere. The light is fading, but the sun is still bright, casting a soft, orange glow over everything. There aren’t too many trees along the highway, and the grassy plains seem to go on forever, meeting the mountains in the distance. The sheer amount of space is so intimidating that I feel like a very small, insignificant part of it, needing something familiar to make me feel better. I grab my bag and my fingers instantly brush against the phone.

I press the button and it buzzes into life, the beeps start coming in thick and fast and attracting an annoyed look from the passenger sitting opposite me. I turn the volume right down, before looking at the screen. Twelve messages. Had I expected more? In some weird, messed-up twist of vain hope, was I expecting hundreds?

I scroll through the sender details and instantly delete any from Henry, without even reading them. Cowardly, I know, but I don’t want to face the music quite yet. There’s a text from Mum. Whoops, probably should’ve texted her when I landed. I send a quick message back to reassure her that I’m still in one piece. I text Evie too, and I’ve got my new laptop with me so I’ll send them a massive email when I get to the hostel.

Flicking on my iPod, I choose some music to suit my mood. I choose a playlist called ‘Mellowest of Mellowness’, but the first song reminds me of Henry, so I flick through randomly.

Pressing my forehead against the cool glass and tapping my fingers on my rucksack in time to the beat, I take in the picture-postcard scenery. If someone had told me that come November, I’d be on a bus to Fraser Mountain, in British Columbia, in Canada, all by myself? Well, I wouldn’t have believed them. Looking back, it was inconceivable that the day Susannah blubbed all over me could change the course of my life so drastically.