The Red Leaves and Solitary Islands of the Thousand Islands
On the eve of Thanksgiving weekend, I rushed overnight to Kingston, all for the chance to board the long-awaited Island Star cruise. It was a true “floating restaurant,” where wine glasses swayed gently with the rippling water beneath a glass dome.
As the ship departed the dock, sunlight broke through the clouds. The city’s clock tower gradually receded, and the Saint Lawrence River was spread with the colors of autumn. One island followed another—some were nothing more than rocks and pine trees, while others held stone houses. Some say poets once lived here in seclusion; others spent their entire lives on these islands.
We passed an island with only a small wooden house. An elderly man outside seemed to know the arrival of every boat—before we even got close, he waved at us. In that moment, it felt as if time folded in the wind: he on the island, I on the ship, yet both of us sharing the same autumn light.
Lunch was served on the floating restaurant, the silver knife slicing through roasted meat blending with the gentle sway of music. Through the glass dome, the sky over Kingston gradually turned golden-red. In that moment, I suddenly understood that a “journey” is sometimes not about traveling far, but about slowly approaching tranquility from the midst of clamor.
Sometimes, solitude is not an escape, but a gentle return.
Ghosts and Whispers in the Night Alleys
As night fell, the old town built of limestone revealed a different face. Orange-yellow streetlights cast their glow on mottled walls, and the air was filled with both dampness and the scent of stories long told.
I joined the Ghost and Mystery Trolley Tour. The trolley weaved through the historic district, its lights sweeping across the high walls of the jail, the iron gates of the convent school, and the infamous psychiatric hospital said to be a place “from which no one ever returned.”
When we passed the Kingston Psychiatric Hospital, the driver’s voice suddenly dropped: “In the past, those sent here never left alive. Even in death, they were buried on this same land.”
It is said that the hospital once housed the nation’s most complex psychiatric cases. Behind its iron gates, doctors, nuns, and patients lived together, leaving countless untold secrets. Though the hospital has long ceased operations, some say that whispers can still be heard by the windows.
Perhaps it was all part of the performance, yet as the night wind brushed the back of my neck, a chill ran through me—not fear, but the sensation of history gently watching.
The ghosts of Kingston do not lurk in the shadows; they hide in the crevices of time, reminding us of the city’s past pains and memories.
The trolley started moving again, heading back to the city center. At that moment, I caught sight of a distant bell tower—Kingston’s church illuminated in the night. Light fell across the building, like a call from another world, or a small spark kindled for the dark stories of history.
Limestone Domes and the Play of Light
St. George’s Anglican Cathedral
Morning sunlight filtered through the clouds, spilling onto the cathedral’s dome as I once again walked toward St. George’s Cathedral.
Nearly as old as the city itself, it marks the beginning of Kingston’s history of faith and remains one of the city’s enduring souls.
Its grey-white exterior and rounded skyline exude stability without losing elegance. Inside, Tuscan columns uphold the dome, and light pours through high windows, casting patterns on the wooden pews and the pulpit. The hourly chimes resonate through the air—one of Kingston’s most consistent and iconic markers of time. Its sound can be heard nearly every day, becoming the rhythm and breath of city life.
I have visited many Anglican cathedrals, yet I am still struck by the brightness and clarity of this one. It is more magnificent than imagined, yet open—like Kingston itself: dignified, yet gentle.
St. Mary’s Cathedral
Further north stands St. Mary’s Cathedral. Its spire points straight to the sky, once a 19th-century symbol of humanity’s “pursuit of heavenly beauty.” Inside, the ribbed vaulted ceiling is cloaked in deep blue and gold, dotted with stars, as if the night sky had been frozen above. The main altar, carved from Italian Carrara marble, radiates a soft glow amid its austere lines. In 2012, this cathedral was featured on a Canadian postage stamp—faith transformed into art, and into a trace of time.
St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church
Passing by St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, I noticed worship had just concluded. Elderly parishioners greeted one another and slowly exited. Nearly every church in Kingston holds its most formal service at 10:30 a.m. on Sundays, a rhythm seldom found in larger cities today.
Perhaps this is Kingston’s most enchanting quality—it does not chase the pace of the world, but instead moves gently with time.
Conclusion
Kingston is a city softly guarded by time. The bells replace the clamor of life; stone walls preserve memory. Every visit to a church feels like meeting the gaze of those who came before.
Here, French and British influences coexist—streets and shops bear French names, while stately British-style houses line the avenues. French romance and British restraint intertwine, letting the city shimmer uniquely within the folds of history.
Can one not repeat the past? Why not?
In Kingston, every step feels like a stride toward the future, yet closely connected to history.
