Working an International Convention in Calgary Canada is one of those full-throttle gigs you don’t forget in a hurry. Twenty thousand delegates from all corners of the globe, five days of shuttles and spreadsheets, a tonne of laughter and some seriously good humans gave me one massive lesson in the importance of humour when things go sideways. It also set a happy rhythm for my mostly solo stretch to follow.
On the job, I spent a fair bit of time around the Saddledome, home of the Calgary Flames, but didn’t spot a single player, not a butterfly stretch in sight. I did, however, clock plenty of cowboys. Stampede week was warming up, sadly, my timing was off by a week. The minute we wrapped, I hotfooted it to the East Village and checked into the Alt Hotel, modern, minimal, and perfectly placed to do Calgary at my own pace.
The East Village defies its reputation as a rough-around-the-edges corner of Calgary; my experience was art, architecture and unexpected charm.
No step counts, just letting the city unfold at street level. I notice the small stuff that way: overheard conversations, alleyway art, the smell of wood-fire on the breeze.
At its core, this was to be a five-day walking holiday. No step counts, just letting the city unfold at street level. I notice the small stuff that way: overheard conversations, alleyway art, the smell of wood-fire on the breeze. It’s how you feel a city’s rhythm, boots on the ground, curiosity in charge. Over five days, I clocked 70-odd kilometres without thinking, meandering from riverbanks to rooftop bars, vintage stores to galleries, each turn deciding the next.
I made a fabulous new friend at the convention and roped him into giving me a lift to Banff and Lake Louise, a stunning part of the trip I was happy to share with excellent company. Our first stop, a lunch reservation at the Vermillion Room inside the Fairmont Springs. Moët, poached shrimp, king crab chowder, and a crisp Pinot Gris, precisely the kind of comfort needed after a convention wrap party. Fortunately, a truck-stop Canadian long black had kept the hangover in check before it could even kick in.
The Fairmont Banff Springs isn’t just a luxury hotel; it’s a castle tucked into the Rockies, with Wes Anderson hallways and views that stop you mid-step. I was there in June, spring florals were freshly planted, and frankly, I could have curled up by a fire watching Cascade and Mount Rundle rise from the valley for the rest of my days. Another time, though, we had a gondola to catch.
The Banff Gondola climbs 698 metres (2,292 feet) in just eight minutes to the summit of Sulphur Mountain, where on a clear day you’re treated to sweeping views of six mountain ranges, the Bow Valley, and maybe even a photobombing Oreamnos americanus, the great Canadian mountain goat. We got completely rained out, so we had limited views and no goat; just cloud cover and a very cosy crowd crammed into the summit centre, but honestly, I didn’t care. There’s something quietly brilliant about being inside a cloud that high up in the Rockies.
Driving through and being in the Rockies is an experience that recalibrates the concept of “scenic.” Towering peaks, glacial rivers, forests that go on forever, it’s cinematic, yes, but also wildly grounding. The Canadian Rockies span over 1,000 kilometres and stretch across Alberta and British Columbia, carved out by tectonic shifts and ancient glaciers. Every turn feels like it should come with a score by Hans Zimmer. Even the highway truck stop, with the long black, had postcard views. That stretch between Calgary and Banff is one of the most beautiful drives I have ever experienced, and no matter how many photos you take, none of them really do it justice. You don’t just see the grandeur of the Rockies; you feel them deep in your soul.
Leaving Banff, we swung by Lake Louise for coffee and a pastry at the Guides Pantry, then snuck a cheeky walk through the Fairmont Chateau’s foyer (technically guest-only). The Chateau has stood on the lake’s edge since 1890, once a log cabin for adventurers, now a grand hotel that’s hosted royals, mountaineers, and those who like their wilderness with a top-notch wine list. Lake Louise, once called Ho-run-num-nay or “Lake of the Little Fishes” by the Stoney Nakoda people, sits at 1,731 metres above sea level and is one of Canada’s highest glacial lakes. Its surreal turquoise colour is very real and comes from fine glacial sediment that scatters light like crystal. Even on an overcast day in June, it is stunning. Just ahead of Canada Day, locals were prepping for the annual polar bear dip, and it was busy, so we found a quiet bend in the river, 10 minutes out instead: pants rolled up high, socks off, water temp around 3°C. I almost committed to a full cold plunge but settled for a splash, keeping one eye out for bears.
By the time we rolled back into Calgary, it was late, or it should’ve been; one of the perks of an Alberta spring is that it doesn’t get dark until after 10 pm. Because I like to maximise my time, I’d booked myself a ticket to see Eric Kane at the King Eddy. On the road back, I talked my new BFF into coming along. The King Eddy, well, it’s a Calgary institution. It first opened in 1905 as the King Edward Hotel, and it was one of the city’s oldest bars before falling into disrepair. It’s since been dismantled, rebuilt brick by brick, and now lives on inside the National Music Centre as a live music venue, restaurant, and recording space, old soul, new sound, with the Rolling Stones’ mobile studio casually parked next door.
I didn’t know it, but I was walking into one of the best live music moments I’ve had in years. Eric Kane played raw, beautiful, heartbreak that you could feel. After losing his brother in 2015, grief became his songwriting fuel, and national radio play, award nods, and opening slots for major bands followed. His original work is all grit and soul, and his version of WickedGame still gives me goosebumps today.
Most mornings, I wandered down to Sidewalk Citizen in the East Village for the Phil and Sebastian coffee and shakshuka, tangy, spicy, and exactly what you need on a cold Canadian morning. From there, I’d roam. Prince’s Island Park is a lush, 20-hectare island in the middle of the Bow River, just north of downtown, a proper urban oasis. You can wander through gardens, wetlands, and over bridges that link it back into the city via the Bow River Pathway, a 48 km network of trails for walkers, runners, bikers, skaters, and squirrels. It’s also home to some of Calgary’s biggest festivals, including the Calgary Folk Music Festival, and come winter, it turns into a skating and cross-country playground under big city lights.
In one of those quietly perfect, unplanned moments, I wandered into the atrium of the Calgary Central Library, stunning architecture, all soft light and timber curves. I grabbed myself a ticket to a poetry open mic. I settled in, half expecting a gentle hum of quiet meditation, and instead (amongst other great local talent) I got Wakefield Brewster, Canada’s Poet Laureate, stepping up for an unannounced set. Just him, the mic, and a dozen lucky punters – we fell completely still. His delivery was part sermon, part confession, powerful and impossible to ignore. A phenomenal presence. I felt ridiculously lucky to have caught it.
One of the underrated pleasures of travelling alone is the solo dinner, no small talk, no menu negotiations, just you, your appetite, and the hum of a room you don’t have to fill. I love the indulgence of it.
One of the underrated pleasures of travelling alone is the solo dinner, no small talk, no menu negotiations, just you, your appetite, and the hum of a room you don’t have to fill. I love the indulgence of it. Tucked in a corner, watching the way a place moves. The low buzz of conversation, the way good service can feel like a kind of quiet company. It’s a small act of independence that feels oddly luxurious, and I refuse to pick up my phone for distraction. Calgary delivered some excellent solo meals and some truly exceptional Canadian service.
Twice, I ate solo at Charbar, tucked inside the old Simmons Building with its exposed brick, big industrial windows and wood-fired energy. The kitchen sat open, and I watched the team move like a well-rehearsed band. I didn’t miss company for a second. Another night, I slipped into Teatro, all soaring ceilings and old-world calm, housed in a former bank and still carrying that quiet sense of occasion. A stunning Bocci chandelier, a constellation of blown-glass orbs in amber, turquoise and rose, floats above the dining room like an upside-down bouquet. The salt and pepper squid was perfection, the dirty martini cold and unapologetic. Both places making space for my solitude without making it feel like absence.
I spent a whole day just roaming Kensington, cute independent stores, proper coffee (hard to find), and a pit stop at PB and J YYC. PB and J YYC might sound like your standard peanut butter and jelly situation, but it’s Pressed, Burgers & Jaffles, and it’s the jaffles that steal the show. I had a turkey mince, herb and cheddar number that came out golden, melty, and perfectly crisp, genuine comfort food with no pretence, just an excellent toastie and a warm cup of tea.
I walked my way through Inglewood, too, excellent vintage spots of western kitsch. I inhaled a pastry at Canela, Canada’s first all-vegan bakery that converted even this croissant purist. My Inglewood highlight was beyond doubt the Esker Foundation. I never skip a gallery when I travel; it’s where a city reveals its edge, its guts and all its glory. The Esker sits above a furniture store, hiding in plain sight. The place is light-filled and curated with intent. Caroline Monnet’s Pizandawatc is a layered exploration of Indigenous legacy, memory, and cultural reclamation. It was powerful without being preachy. And Oliver Beer’s Compositions for Mouths, Face and Hands? Weird, wonderful, and totally mesmerising. Human bodies as instruments, an intimate performance and a haunting soundscape. I left slower, softer, and reminded (again) that art is my favourite way to meet a city.
Canada Day celebrations were bubbling across Calgary all week. Fireworks, markets, music, and don’t get me started on the maple cream cookies. Calgary’s got this energy, part festival, part wild frontier, and I loved it. If you’re more Gucci than gumboots, head to Holt Renfrew at the CORE, where you’ll find all the big names. But honestly? I’d rather be down the road at The Guild with a medium-rare steak and a second margarita, watching the crowd roll in.
I came for a work gig, and I stayed for the music, the art, the poetry, the toasties and the fabulous Canadian Rockies. Somewhere between the chaos and the quiet river paddle, Calgary caught me off guard in all the right ways. Would I go back? In a heartbeat.