I arrive in Quebec City on the wind of the carnival. A rather unexpected wind, causing chaos throughout the city, and bringing with it the worst snowstorm of the winter. More than 75 centimetres of snow have fallen overnight: it looks like an etching dating from a more primitive time, when wolves would cross the frozen rivers to hunt for food between the buildings.
The capital of the Canadian province of Quebec, this city has been calling to me for years. Growing up in Yorkshire, the child of a local man and a French woman, I learned to understand my dual culture by means of songs and folklore. French and English folk-songs have much in common and, over the centuries, they've crossed the sea to the New World.
The Carnaval de Québec is a pre-Lenten tradition, dating back to 1894 - a celebration of winter through folklore, music and feasting. One of the world's largest winter carnivals, it's held every year in mid-February on the city's Plains of Abraham, with an ice palace, lantern parades, snow sculpting and sports that include ice-canoe races, snowboarding, ice hockey, dog sledding and snowshoeing. There's a masked ball at the Château Frontenac, one of Canada's grand railway hotels, which dominates the Upper Town in all its mock-Gothic glory. The celebrations are fuelled with warming shots of caribou, a traditional drink of port wine, whisky and maple syrup, and are presided over by Bonhomme, a giant snowman wearing a red hat and a traditional chevron sash, who's been the carnival mascot since 1955.
Thousands of people attend every year, and the atmosphere is lively and welcoming. Parents and children skate on the rink at the Place D'Youville, or practise archery or axe-throwing. The brave can try Au 1884, a historic toboggan run that starts on the hotel's Dufferin Terrace. There's something for everyone here, and visitors whose French isn't quite up to scratch, will find that most people speak English, especially during the carnival.
This place feels very familiar, even though it's my first time here. Folk music plays through speakers lining the streets and, with a sense of déjà vu, I recognize the chanson "V'là l'bon vent". Despite its size, the city retains the feel of a village under the snow, and creates a warm and friendly atmosphere.
A land of stories
The name Quebec comes from the Algonquin word kébec, meaning "where the river narrows". It refers to the part of the Old Town where the Saint Lawrence River flows into a cliff-lined gap. Vieux-Québec, a historic neighbourhood in and around the city walls, is a maze of stone buildings and small streets lined with cafes and restaurants.
Porte Saint-Louis and Porte Saint-Jean are the main gates, and the Upper and Lower Towns are linked by steep stone steps that remind me of Montmartre in Paris. A funicular railway runs from rue du Petit-Champlain, with its little boutiques, to the Upper Town, where, at Les Trois Corbeaux workshop on Côte de la Fabrique, you can watch glassblowers creating the pieces on sale. The buildings are still decorated for Christmas: it gives the Old Town a timeless feel, like a world caught in a snow globe.
Churches, convents and seminaries are everywhere, reflecting the strong Catholic heritage of the city. My hotel, Le Monastère des Augustines, is a former convent. It's kept many of its original features, including the chapel and refectory. There's also a museum, and many of the old nuns' cells have been made into guest-rooms, plain but clean. A small group of Augustine nuns still live here: during breakfast (which is taken in silence), I hear them singing in the church. Along with the healing and yoga sessions, this contributes to the air of seclusion and peace.
Also elsewhere in the city, Quebec's strong history of Catholicism is still apparent. My guide, David Mendel, author of many books on the city's architecture and history, takes me on a tour of its churches, including the Cathedral-Basilica of Notre-Dame de Québec, dating from 1647, the oldest church in Canada; the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, with its historical organ, made in London in 1779; and the Seminary of Quebec, which prepared boys for the priesthood and later became Laval University, the first French-language university in North America.
I also meet Robert Bouthillier, a folk music expert from Brittany. He tells me that "V'là l'bon vent" is far, far older than I'd thought. At least 300 variants exist, covering the entire French-speaking world. Over a breakfast of pancakes at Chez Muffy, we discuss how different narratives adapt to suit their environment, and how a song from medieval France could have become so well known in Canada.
But this is a land of stories. Stories are what people bring with them when they leave their native country, and stories are what built Quebec - stories of conquest, courage and hope. Everyone here has a story, or a song, or a recipe. The stories of the city are those of the people who came here, and their stories are linked everywhere to its famous hospitality. Perhaps it's the language - the language of my childhood - that makes me feel so welcome. Or maybe it's the fact that, on every street, people are sharing food, music and laughter.
A taste of rural life
Feasting has always been a part of the tradition of Quebec. There are many excellent places to eat, such as my hotel, where they serve six-course tasting menus (including bison steak, roasted beets and chocolate tart).
Another experience not to be missed is lunch at one of the regional sugar shacks - cabanes à sucre. Live folk music and traditional food (meat pies, boiled ham, chickpea soup, tarte au sucre and, of course, glasses of the famous caribou) are followed by maple candies made in front of you in the snow.
If you can tear yourself away from the delights of the carnival, it's worth heading out to Île d'Orléans, an island in the Saint Lawrence River, five kilometres or so east of downtown Quebec. Home of the great Montmorency Falls, the island offers a taste of rural life close to the city. The village of Saint-Pétronille has a lovely chocolate shop - Chocolaterie de l'Île d'Orléans - a family business owned by Geneviève Noël, who makes all her chocolates on site in a tiny artisan workshop.
The island is still largely agricultural - although none of that matters under the snow - but I take the opportunity to try dog sledding with Expédition Mi-Loup. It's supposed to be an hour-long ride but, with more snow than expected, it becomes a real adventure. There's another storm on the way, and the dogs need our help to guide the sledge through the deep snow.
As we drive through the pinewoods (singing "V'là l'bon vent"), I spot what I'm sure are coyotes watching from among the trees. Although our guide later reassures me it was only a pack of dogs, I'm sure they were coyotes, and won't be persuaded otherwise. We get back two and a half hours later, long after dark, glad to see cups of hot chocolate and an open fire waiting for us.
Stories carried on the wind
The next day, I head west of the city into rural Quebec and the village of Saint-Côme, known for music, folklore, food and traditions. I meet with the village's mayor, who introduces me to the ice-sculpting festival of Saint-Côme. Every household in the village contributes. Huge blocks of ice are taken from the river and cut with chainsaws into magical shapes that line the main street. Each ice sculpture has a different personality, and there's a fierce but good-natured rivalry between the artists. The sense of being in a snow globe is even stronger here, where everyone knows everyone, and everyone has a story to tell. We have lunch at the Trécarré microbrewery, during which a trio of folk musicians sets up at the bar and starts to play. The guests join in the singing. The singer and violinist, Michel, tells me that this happens throughout the year, but especially during winter, when spirits are flagging.
In today's dazzling sunlight, I find that hard to believe, but the winter is long, he tells me. Stories and music are a way of fighting the dark. And here, with the snow piled six metres high in some places, a strong sense of community is a matter of survival.
That evening, a concert is held by local musicians. The first band I see features the mayor on lead vocals, his family alongside him. If only the mayor in Chocolat had had the same priorities. But things are different in rural Quebec. Perhaps it's the snow-globe effect. Or maybe it's because here, music and stories are like seeds, settling over the countryside, carried on the wind that has blown them here from villages all over Europe. The same wind has brought me here, so I, too, am a tiny part of the story now, writing my own variations and carrying them back home with me.
"It's easy to become part of this place," said Bouthillier, the folklorist. "I came here intending to stay for six months and ended up staying 20 years."
I can well believe it. Cocooned in the snow, Quebec is like an enchanted kingdom, dreaming under a sky as blue as in a fairy tale. The snow has stopped falling as I leave to head back to the airport. But the stories and songs are still playing here - and that wind is always blowing.
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