The wilderness family

I pulled a calf muscle while running up the road to Cardiff. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have been a problem - but this particular Cardiff was basically just a pizza joint-cum-petrol station on a crossroads in endless pine forest, and the "road" I was on was a hardtop track. I'd already disturbed a snake and a deer, and now the undergrowth seemed to take a threatening step forwards. There were wolves, moose and bears in there.

What had started out as a holiday resolution about getting fit was in danger of turning into an opening scene from The X-Files. For 20 minutes I hopped and hobbled, but then I heard the crunch of tyres. An Oldsmobile pulled up, and a redhead of indeterminate years wound down her window. There was a crazy glint in her eye and an open bottle of beer between her knees. "Are you a bad guy?" she said. "'Cos if you are I'll cut you into little pieces."

I promised in my best BBC English that I was as good as gold, and when I'd finished there was a long pause. Then she opened the door. "Talk some more," she said as I clambered in. "It's kinda cute."

Every time I go to North America I feel like I've stepped into a scene from low-budget TV, and coming to cottage country in the Canadian province of Ontario was no different. This was Northern Exposure meets On Golden Pond, with a touch of the Waltons.

We'd come as a family and rented a wooden house which stood on stilts among the trees by the Irondale river. It had a wrap-around deck with a gas barbie and a refrigerator so large that daughter Rhena had virtually to climb inside to retrieve a yoghurt. It also had its own canoe on its own little sandy beach below the house, in water that was sluggish, clear and warm. Within a couple of days of arriving we had fallen into a routine of getting up late, breakfasting on pancakes and maple syrup, chopping wood, calling each other mom and pop, and saying things like "Honey, I'm home." It was our role as parents to sit on the deck, shucking peas, while the kids went down to the river to play with the raccoons, pronounced RAK-coons.

In the heat of the day we'd all flop naked into our river. In the misty evenings we'd mount small-scale canoe expeditions upriver, past the occasional beaver lodge and pursued by the occasional mosquito.

There's not much in the way of synthetic fun in this corner of Canada. Once upon a time it was lumberjack country, but these days the forests have regrown and the descendants of the lumberjacks seem to be intent on catching up on the rest earned by their ancestors, preferably with a few beers and a sirloin on the grill.

Forest trails and lakes are the principal recreation. Lakes are big everywhere in Canada, but Ontario has a staggering 250,000 of them, and every car seemed to have a canoe on the roof. So we went swimming, walking, camping and wildlife-spotting on every handy bit of water, and every day on the way home there was a stop for " moose tracks" flavour Kawartha Dairy Ice Cream, so rich you could feel your rear widening as you ate it.

I suspect it was the very vastness of the landscape that made the people seem a bit odd. You could feel the eyes on your back in Gooderham, our nearest township (petrol station, launderette, grocery store and chip truck, where a notice warned against the use of " profanities and vulgar language" and the store was run by a Chinese family who preferred not to speak at all.

Kinmount, beyond, was a one-horse town with a five-screen cinema and a claim to fame as the "home of the world's second largest small-mouthed bass" - we would not have been surprised to meet that venerable creature, on its verandah, selling bait.

But it was my saviour, the crazy lady in her Oldsmobile, who really deserved her own mini-series. As we were lurching down the track towards safety, she told me what she considered to be a relevant joke for the occasion. "A bear walking through the forest comes across two people," she said. "One writing their diary and the other reading a book. Which does he eat first?" I confessed I had no idea. "The one reading," said my new friend, swigging from her bottle. "Because while writers cramp, readers digest."

And with that she stopped and let me out at the main road with a warning to be careful: apparently, there were some strange folks out there.

Way to go

Andrew Eames and family travelled to Ontario with Clearwater Holidays (01993 868727). A week in the River House (sleeps six) costs from £650. For a flight, contact Canadian Affair (020 7616 9999) which has Toronto returns in early May for £229pp; ages two-15 £189. More details from Ontario Tourism (020 7771 7004).