With Remembrance Day coming up on November 11, I have been thinking a lot about the quiet way we honour those who have served.
One of my favourite ways to reflect is by visiting military graves. There is something powerful about finding these simple, dignified markers in cemeteries across the country.
So, I thought this would be a meaningful time to share a collection of Canadian military gravestones that I have photographed over the years. Each one tells a story, and together they remind us that service and sacrifice are never forgotten.
Canadian Armed Forces members who pass away during service are honoured with a standard military tombstone. These gravestones are arranged through the Department of National Defence and placed by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission when the marker is in one of their cemeteries, or by Public Works and Government Services Canada when it is in a civilian cemetery.1 The goal is to maintain a consistent style and honour each member with the same level of care.1
Veterans who are buried in civilian cemeteries can also receive grave marker support. Veterans Affairs Canada runs a Grave Marker Maintenance Program that repairs, cleans, and restores veteran markers across the country.2
In 2023 alone, more than 110,000 repairs were carried out in communities big and small.3 It is pretty incredible to think about how much work goes into preserving these stones and their stories.
There are clear rules that guide what goes on a military gravestone. The design is simple and respectful. Each one includes the person’s name, rank, service number, unit or branch, and date of death. If the family wishes, an approved religious emblem or a personal inscription can be added. The stones are all made in the same style and materials, so they stay uniform and recognizable.1
Military graves remind us that history is not just something in books. It’s carved in stone and tended with care. Next time you are exploring a cemetery and you see one of these markers, take a moment to pause.
Even though Halloween has just passed, it still feels like a perfect time to share another ghost story.
One that stands out is the tale of the Bird family of Bracebridge, Ontario, and the mysterious history of Woodchester Villa. A house known for both its striking architecture and its lingering ghostly rumours.
In April of 2024, my mother and I took a trip to Bracebridge to explore this unique historic site. It was Easter weekend and our first road trip of the season. The Spring thaw had come early, but spring itself hadn’t quite arrived yet. The trees were bare, and the grass was still brown, giving the whole day an autumn feel.
It was fitting, since we were there to visit ghosts.
Built in 1882, Woodchester Villa was the dream home of Henry James Bird, a successful wool mill owner who made his mark in Bracebridge, Ontario.1 Henry was born on January 3, 1842, in Woodchester, England, the youngest of eleven children.2 He learned the wool trade in his home country before spending time in Australia and the United States, eventually settling in Canada in 1867.2
Before finding his footing in Bracebridge, Henry worked for the Rosamond Woollen Company in Lanark County.2 A few years later, he bought a mill in Glen Allan, but after a terrible flood damaged the property, he decided it was time for a change.2 Tragically, before he could make the move north, his first wife, Sarah Jane Fraser, and their two young children died of tuberculosis.2 In 1872, Henry moved to Bracebridge, where he opened the Bird Woollen Mill beside the falls.2
Henry quickly became a respected businessman and community leader. He served on the town council and helped bring new public utilities to the growing town, including its first water and fire protection systems.2 His success and civic pride eventually led him to build his grand home, naming it “Woodchester” after the village where his story began.2
Woodchester Villa
Although Woodchester Villa was ahead of its time, it’s also long been tied to strange happenings that add to its eerie charm. The house was closed during our visit, but we spent plenty of time admiring its design and reading the educational panels scattered around the property. They helped us picture what life might have been like for the Bird family living within those walls.
I wandered around the grounds with my camera, hoping to catch a flicker of movement from inside. We didn’t see any spirits, but the landscape itself felt charged, as if the past still lingered quietly on that secluded hilltop.
Woodchester Villa is one of Ontario’s finest examples of an Octagonal house.1 The eight-sided design was inspired by Orson Squire Fowler, an American phrenologist and author who believed octagon homes were healthier and more efficient than traditional square houses.1 Bird fully embraced this philosophy, creating a three-storey home that blended innovation with comfort.2
Inside, the villa featured some impressive amenities for the late 1800s, like indoor plumbing supplied by rainwater tanks on the second floor, a ventilation system that circulated air throughout the house, and even electric lighting, which was rare for the time.2
For all its beauty and history, Woodchester Villa has a reputation for being one of the most haunted spots in Bracebridge. Behind its restored walls, many believe something otherworldly lingers.3
Stories tell of a spectral woman and two ghostly children who seem to wander the rooms.3 Visitors and staff have reported hearing the soft cries of a baby, the quick steps of little feet on the upper floors, and the faint sound of a woman’s voice singing somewhere in the distance.3 Cold spots are often felt throughout the house, especially near the basement stairs. Some have also described the air growing so cold they could see their breath, even in the middle of summer.3
While no one can say for sure who these spirits are, many believe the ghostly woman could be Henry Bird’s first wife, Sarah Jane, accompanied by their two young children.3 All three died of tuberculosis before Henry moved to Bracebridge. Perhaps, as Andrew Hind suggests in Muskoka’s Most Haunted 2, their sudden, tragic deaths left them unable to rest, and they followed Bird north to the home he would later build.3
The idea is both eerie and oddly touching. If the spirits truly belong to Henry’s lost family, Woodchester may represent the life they were meant to share, their love quietly echoing through the halls, long after death.
Bracebridge United Cemetery
After exploring the villa grounds, we visited the nearby Bracebridge United Cemetery, where Henry James Bird and his family are buried.
The cemetery was quiet and calm, yet the connection between the villa and the family’s final resting place added an eerie layer to our visit. Standing at Henry’s grave, I felt surrounded by history and maybe something more. Whether it’s the family’s hardships or the strange energy tied to their home, the Bird story seems to linger beyond the grave.
The Bird family’s story and their haunted home remind us how easily history and mystery can intertwine. Whether or not you believe in ghosts, there’s something about Woodchester Villa that still feels alive with the past.
For anyone interested in cemetery tourism or dark local history, this hauntingly beautiful site is well worth the visit.
Some cemeteries feel alive with history, and sometimes with something else entirely!
Drummond Hill Cemetery in Niagara Falls is one of those places. Known as the site of one of the fiercest battles of the War of 1812, it’s also considered Canada’s most haunted cemetery.
Long before its haunted reputation took hold, Drummond Hill was a popular tourist stop, even rivalling Niagara Falls. Visitors came for battlefield tours led by veterans eager to share their stories.1
Drummond Hill was once farmland, but on July 25, 1814, it became the site of the Battle of Lundy’s Lane, one of the bloodiest conflicts of the War of 1812.2 The hill’s high ground made it strategically important, and the fighting went on for six hours before darkness and heavy losses brought it to an end.2 Both sides lost more than 800 men, and although each claimed victory, the Americans withdrew the next day, ending their advance into Upper Canada.2
Today, a large stone monument stands on the hill to honour those who fought and to mark the battlefield.3 Beneath it lies a vault containing the remains of 22 British soldiers.3
The first recorded burial at Drummond Hill is John Burch. He was originally buried on his farm in 1797 and re-interred here in 1799.3 That means this ground was already being used as a burial place well before the battle. Over time, the cemetery grew to roughly 4 acres and now contains more than 25,000 burials.4 The site is managed by the City of Niagara Falls and remains semi-active, though plots are no longer for sale.3
Among those buried here are veterans, Loyalist settlers, and many early Niagara families. One of the most visited graves belongs to Laura Secord, the woman who warned British forces of an American attack during the War of 1812.4 Another notable grave is that of Karel Soucek, the daredevil who famously survived his barrel plunge over Niagara Falls.5 You will also find markers and monuments for soldiers and local leaders from the region’s early days.3
With its violent past and long history, it’s no surprise Drummond Hill has a haunted reputation. Many stories connect back to the battle, where soldiers were killed and buried on the grounds.6 Visitors and locals have reported seeing ghostly soldiers walking among the gravestones, or appearing at a distance before fading away.6
It’s said that the cemetery is haunted by two distinct groups of soldiers.1 One group is a troop of five soldiers dressed in Royal Scots uniforms, limping across the former battlefield before vanishing.1 The second group is said to consist of three British Soldiers in red coats, slowly making their way up the hill and settling into a steady march, before disappearing.1
Laura Secord’s monument, which features a lifelike bust, has also been linked to supernatural occurrences. Some visitors say that her statue seems to watch them as they walk by, as if she’s still keeping a watchful eye on things.1 These reports, combined with the age of the cemetery and its battlefield history, make Drummond Hill a place where history and the supernatural feel closely connected.1
When I visited Drummond Hill, I made sure to stop at Laura Secord’s grave. Standing in front of her stone was moving, knowing her bravery has become such a lasting part of Canadian history.
During my visit, I did have one unsettling experience, but it had nothing to do with the supernatural.
I came across someone under the influence, wandering through the cemetery. For the first time in all my cemetery visits, I felt unsafe. It was a harsh reminder of how deeply the opioid crisis has reached into our communities, even historic sites like this. That moment pulled me out of the past and reminded me of the struggles happening right now.
Drummond Hill Cemetery is layered with stories. It carries the weight of the War of 1812, the lives of pioneers and heroes, and the ghostly legends of soldiers who never left. It’s a place where history and mystery meet, and where the past feels close. Visiting left me reflecting not only on the history that shaped this ground, but also on the realities of the present.
Haunted or not, Drummond Hill remains one of Canada’s most fascinating and important cemeteries.
Thanks for reading!
References:
Haunted Cemeteries: True Tales From Beyond the Grave by Edrick Thay | Book
You can’t help but notice them. The Bell Mansion in Sudbury, Ontario, is one of those places. It’s grand, full of history, and, if the stories are true, maybe even haunted.
Despite its spooky reputation, it’s also been a popular spot for wedding photos, with its striking architecture offering a mix of romance and a touch of haunted charm.
But while the mansion still stands for now, its future is uncertain, and its past lingers in more ways than one.
William Joseph Bell, better known as Willie Joe, was born in Pembroke, Ontario, in 1858.1 He started in the lumber industry at just 18, working as a scaler and lumberjack in Quebec.1 By the time he moved to Northern Ontario in 1896, he had already made a name for himself.1 He quickly climbed the ranks, becoming Vice-President and General Manager of the Spanish River Lumber Company in 1901.1 His influence didn’t stop there; he also ran a hardware company and sat on the board of National Grocers Ltd.1
In 1886, he married Katherine Skead, the daughter of an Ottawa senator, and the couple eventually settled in Sudbury.1 Beyond business, they were generous community builders. Their greatest gift may be Bell Park, a beautiful green space on Ramsey Lake, which they donated in 1926.2 A gift that continues to benefit Sudbury today.
The park remains one of the city’s most beloved gathering spots, offering accessible recreation for people of all ages. Just as Bell Park connects residents with nature, the Bell Mansion connects them with the city’s past, standing as a reminder of the Bells’ influence and Sudbury’s early growth.
The Bell Mansion
Built in 1907, the Bell Mansion, also known as Belrock, is beautiful. Made from local stone in the Arts and Crafts style, the house once sat on 155 acres, stretching from Elizabeth Street down to Ramsey Lake.3,4 That land is now Bell Park, but back then it was all part of the Bell’s massive estate. The mansion itself is a 6,000-square-foot beauty, complete with a coach house, greenhouse, and a separate house for the servants.4
On December 3, 1955, disaster struck when a fire gutted the home, leaving little more than stone walls standing.5 Only one room survived—the conservatory.5 The Nickel Lodge Masons bought the property, but their rebuilding plans never came to life.5 For more than a decade, the mansion sat empty until the Centennial Committee of the Chamber of Commerce led renovations in 1966.5 Two years later, ownership was transferred to Laurentian University, which leased the space to the Art Gallery of Sudbury.5
For decades, the gallery displayed countless exhibits within the mansion’s walls. But what fascinates people just as much as the art are the ghost stories.
Over the years, people have reported eerie sounds such as rustling skirts, heels clicking across the floor, and even ghostly horses neighing outside.6 Many believe Katherine Bell still keeps watch over her home.6 Staff and security have both described phantom footsteps, loud crashes with nothing disturbed, and objects disappearing only to reappear days later.5
The most memorable stories involve a woman’s voice that can be heard eerily singing throughout the house. It’s seems to be loudest in the conservatory, the only room spared by the fire.5 Some say Katherine is still rehearsing for one last ghostly concert.5
She may not be alone. Visitors claim William Bell also makes his presence known, through heavy footsteps and sightings of a tall figure in a dark suit and top hat, quietly watching over the gallery.5
Another mystery once puzzled visitors: the sound of children laughing and playing inside the house, even though the Bells never had children of their own.5 The voices eventually faded, but the questions remain. Who were they, and what tied them to the mansion?5
In 2024, I visited to photograph the exterior. Though currently closed to the public and sadly in visible disrepair, the mansion still has an undeniable elegance, and definitely still has stories to tell.
For all their ties to Sudbury, the Bells aren’t buried there.
Instead, they rest in Calvin United Church Cemetery in Pembroke, Ontario, a peaceful spot along Boundary Road East where six cemeteries line the street.
William Joseph Bell died in January 1945 at the age of 87 from complications of a leg injury,and was buried in the family plot.5 When Katherine Bell passed away in her home at age 90 in 1954, she was laid to rest beside him.7 William’s parents and three siblings are also buried in the family plot. Their large pink granite monument is simple and understated. It’s a sharp contrast to the grandeur of the mansion they left behind.
On my way back from Ottawa in 2024, I stopped in to visit their graves. Despite their prominence in Sudbury, I was surprised they weren’t buried there. With the help of reference photos, I eventually found their gravestone and was able to pay my respects.
In late 2024, Laurentian University announced it would list the property for sale, saying repairs were too costly.8The Art Gallery of Sudbury, which had long occupied the mansion, has already relocated as part of Laurentian’s insolvency process.8
In response, local advocates launched a petition urging that the grounds remain open to the public and that the heritage designation be respected.9 Many argue the mansion is too important a piece of Sudbury’s history to lose.10 That is one of the reasons I felt it was important to photograph it and share its story.
Whether you believe in ghosts or not, there’s no denying that this house has a past worth remembering.
After visiting countless cemeteries, you start to notice patterns. Symbols that repeat in different styles and settings. Some are subtle, while others are bold, but each carry its own meaning.
For today’s collection, I want to take a closer look at the symbols associated with the Freemasons and share some examples I’ve photographed over the years.
Freemasonry is one of the oldest and most widespread fraternal organizations in the world. It began with stonemason guilds of the late Middle Ages.1 Over time, it became a society that focuses on moral integrity, personal growth, and helping the community, all while keeping rituals and symbols that have been passed down for centuries.1 Membership was traditionally men only, and lodges operate under larger governing bodies called Grand Lodges.1
Although often secretive, Freemasonry is not a religion. It is a system of moral and ethical teachings that encourages members to live good lives, help others, and seek knowledge.1 Its symbols, which appear in cemeteries, and historic buildings, serve as reminders of ethics, morality, and brotherhood.2
Possibly the most iconic symbol of Freemasonry is the square and compass, tools once used by stonemasons. In Masonic teachings, the square represents acting morally and treating others fairly.3 The compass symbol reminds members to control their desires.3 The “G” in the center is thought to represent Gnosis (the Greek word for knowledge), Generations (passing knowledge down through the ages), and God.3
Another common gravestone symbol shows two hands clasped in a handshake. If both hands have suit cuffs, it is a fraternal handshake, symbolizing brotherhood.3
The Freemasons also have a sister organization called the Order of the Eastern Star (OES). It was created to allow female relatives of Master Masons to join in Masonic activities. Today, both men and women can become members.
The OES symbol is an inverted five-pointed star, with each point representing one of the five Biblical heroines and the different roles that a woman can play in life.3 Some people mistake the inverted star as evil or witchcraft, but it actually stands for humility and sacrifice. It’s a reminder of the organization’s values: charity, loyalty, and moral integrity.4
Symbols used by the Freemasons and the Order of the Eastern Star offer us an interesting way to look at history, values, and community. Whether carved in stone or hidden in plain sight, each symbol tells a story and encourages reflection.
With spooky season creeping up, you’re probably seeing more buzz about local cemetery happenings—ghost walks, guided tours, and seasonal events popping up in town newsletters and social feeds.
It’s not just about thrills!
Cemetery tourism is quietly becoming a meaningful way to explore history, art, and community all in one place.
What is Cemetery Tourism?
Cemetery tourism is the growing practice of visiting burial grounds for more than just remembrance. They are places to explore history, architecture, storytelling, and culture. As I wrote in a previous post, the pandemic reminded us that cemeteries can be quiet green spaces where people could safely wander and reflect. I think this sparked a renewed appreciation for cemeteries as more than somber places. I have always said that they are open-air museums, rich with stories and art!
Of course, there are mixed opinions. Some argue that cemetery tours and events can feel disrespectful, but many see them as a way to honour the past and keep history alive.
There are different ways to enjoy cemetery tourism—lantern-lit ghost walks, daytime history tours, and seasonal events—each offering something unique.
Ghost Walks
If you’ve never been on a ghost walk, they are guided evening tours that mix local legends, folklore, and real history. Although they usually don’t only take place in cemeteries, you can often find a cemetery or two on the walking route.
While they became especially popular in the 1990s, the idea goes all the way back to the Victorian era, when people were fascinated by spiritualism and mourning traditions. Today, ghost walks let us enjoy spooky storytelling while also learning about the past.
This fall, several Canadian cities are offering atmospheric ghost walks. In Ottawa, The Haunted Walk is running its Tales from the Mausoleum at Beechwood Cemetery, which takes visitors through the cemetery and into its grand mausoleum. In Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ghost Walks share eerie tales in one of Canada’s most haunted towns. Out west, Ghostly Walks in Victoria lead visitors through narrow streets and historic cemeteries filled with legends.
Unlike ghost walks, cemetery tours are usually held during the day and focus more on the history, art, and people buried there. Sometimes these walks will also feature actors who portray the people buried in the cemetery, bringing the stories to life.
You could speculate that this tradition dates back to the 19th century, when garden cemeteries like Mount Auburn in Massachusetts or Père Lachaise in Paris were popular Sunday destinations. People picnicked, strolled, and learned from the monuments. A mix of education, leisure, and remembrance.
That spirit continues today in Canada. In Hamilton, The Cemetery Chronicles series at Hamilton Cemetery offers free themed walks from May through November, led by knowledgeable volunteers. Toronto Cemetery Tours offers rich daytime walks throughout the year at Mount Pleasant Cemetery, the Toronto Necropolis, and Prospect Cemetery.
Cemetery events can include a variety of activities, but usually combine storytelling with seasonal or cultural themes, often blending heritage and atmosphere. They’re especially popular around Halloween time, but it’s possible to find events happening year-round in more and more communities.
This year, Ruthven Park National Historic Site in Cayuga, Ontario, is holding Mansion in Mourning. This event, happening in October, recreates Victorian mourning traditions before ending with a lantern-lit cemetery walk.
Not because we’re haunted by ghosts, but because we’re drawn to the rich stories and connections cemeteries offer. Whether you’re up for a ghostly evening, a curious stroll, or an interactive event, there’s something for everyone to explore.
For your next adventure, check to see what’s happening at a cemetery near you—you might be surprised at what you’ll find!
I rarely stop to think about where our drinking water comes from, let alone whether it’s safe.
In May 2000, the small town of Walkerton, Ontario, faced one of Canada’s worst public health disasters. Contaminated water led to the deaths of seven people and made more than 2,300 people sick.1
Walkerton is about a four-hour drive from where I live, and this year marks the 25th anniversary of that tragedy. In June, my mother and I took a road trip there to visit some of the sites connected to the outbreak and to pay our respects to the lives that were lost.
You might remember hearing about this on the news. Walkerton’s drinking water became contaminated with E.coli.1 The source of the contamination was traced back to Well #5, where runoff from a nearby farm had entered the groundwater. Heavy rainfall in early May 2000 carried manure into the well, and the danger was made worse by human error and poor safety practices at the time.1
For days, residents kept drinking the water, completely unaware of the risk. Once it was realized what was happening, it was too late. Within weeks, seven people had died and more than 2,300 others became seriously ill.1 Many survivors continue to live with lasting health problems even today.
The Walkerton Inquiry, led by the Honourable Dennis R. O’Connor, later showed that this wasn’t just one bad well—but a series of failures. Training was inadequate, oversight was weak, and protocols weren’t followed the way they should have been. Out of this tragedy came stricter water safety regulations for Ontario, which eventually shaped how drinking water is managed across Canada.2
Visiting Walkerton
When we arrived in Walkerton, our first stop was the Walkerton Clean Water Centre. It first opened in 2004, and since then has trained over 23,000 water system operators.3 The new state-of-the-art building, which we visited, was opened in 2010. It features a demonstration water distribution system for hands-on training, more room to host seminars, and space to conduct research.3
In May of this year, they offered tours of the facility, close to the anniversary of the tragedy. The timing didn’t work out for us to take a tour, but I still wanted to take a look at the building.
It’s a modern building, with a lovely koi pond just outside its main doors. The large windows have a nice view of the pond, and let in a lot of natural light. There is also a small pond across from the entrance, overgrown with tall grass and cattails, that is surrounded by a little trail loop. I imagine the staff take advantage of that little walking trail on their lunch breaks. I think the water features, while also being pretty, act as little reminders of how important water is to our ecosystem and us.
Our next stop brought us to a small cemetery that wasn’t connected to the tragedy. I am not one to pass up a cemetery visit though, so we made our way to visit. It just so happened to be very close to the Walkerton water tower. After that, we decided to visit a few more cemeteries, the last one of the day being Calvary Cemetery.
Calvary Cemetery is on the outskirts, just south of the town. This cemetery visit was important for our journey, as it is the final resting place of two people who died in the water tragedy.
Edith Pearson, a mother of five and a grandmother of 13, passed away at the age of 82.4 Not far from her rests Lenore Al, a retired part-time librarian, who passed away at the London Health Sciences Centre at the age of 66.4 Their memorial services were held both during the same week.5
It was a very reflective visit, as my mother and I walked the rows searching for these specific graves. It was a scary thought to think what could happen by just drinking a glass of water. Standing in front of their graves also made their story real, bringing it off the page and into reality.
After that somber visit, I thought it might be a good idea to visit something a little more hopeful. The Walkerton Heritage Water Garden features a waterfall that gushes out from a crack in a large rock formation. It’s inspired by the biblical story of Moses, who struck a rock in the desert to bring water to the Israelites.6 It represents water as a positive symbol of life, healing and renewal. The waterfall pours into a small pond that is surrounded by a larger walking trail. There are benches and small clusters of flowers and tall grass that dot the path that leads you back to the memorial fountain.
It was a hot day when we visited, so the occasional cool spray from the waterfall was very welcome. It was a nice little spot for a small walk, but the constant running water made it hard to forget why it was there.
Our first day in Walkerton was a long one. Shortly after our walk, we found something to eat and then settled in to our motel for the night. We had one more site we had to visit.
The next morning, after a good breakfast, I wanted to find Well #5.
Sometimes while planning and researching, it can be tricky to find exact locations, even in this digital age. But I thought we have to give it a try. So with only a street name in my GPS we headed out.
Slowly driving down the dirt road, we kept our eyes peeled for signs of the well. I was getting worried as we reached the end of the road, but I caught the glimmer of what looked like a silver plaque.
We found the well, which has since been capped off, tucked in behind a small building on the edge of a farmer’s field. Today, it’s just a large cement pad with a small silver plaque. If you didn’t know what you were looking at, you may think nothing of it, but the plaque tells the whole story.
“Well 5 Memorial / This plaque marks the location of Walkerton’s former Well 5 / which supplied a portion of the town’s drinking water from / 1978 into the spring of 2000. In mid May of the year 2000, / extremely heavy rains washed a toxic blend of biological / pathogens through the soils and into the vulnerable shaft of / Well 5 and ultimately into Walkerton’s Municipal drinking / water system. The resulting contamination of the town’s / drinking water system lead to the deaths of seven people and / caused thousands of others to fall ill. It is hoped that all those / who visit this location will reflect upon the multiple causes of / this tragedy and will be filled with a renewed reverence for the / comprehensive stewardship of the waters that sustain us all.”
Finding the well was a moving moment, and as the plaque suggested, my mother and I took some time to reflect as we looked into the farmer’s field and at the old well.
The story of Walkerton didn’t end in 2000. For many survivors, the contamination left behind long-term health complications that they will carry for the rest of their lives. One of those people was Robbie Schnurr, who became seriously ill during the outbreak.7 The illness damaged his kidneys and digestive system, leaving him to cope with constant pain and health struggles for nearly two decades.7
In May of 2018, Robbie made the heartbreaking decision to end his life through Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID).7 He was just 51 years old. The illness caused by Walkerton’s poisoned water was just too heavy a toll.7 Robbie’s story is a reminder that the impact of what happened in Walkerton wasn’t confined to the weeks of the outbreak. It rippled out for years, forever altering lives and families.
Moving Forward
One of the outcomes of the Walkerton Inquiry was a complete overhaul of Ontario’s drinking water regulations. New laws were brought in to ensure public accountability, proper testing, and better training for those operating municipal water systems—all with the goal of making sure something like this never happens again.2
And yet, even in 2025, not every community in Canada can count on that promise. Some First Nation reserves continue to struggle with unsafe drinking water, some living under boil-water advisories that have lasted for years.8
It’s a frustrating and heartbreaking reality. Safe drinking water should be a basic human right, not a privilege.
Visiting Walkerton was an educational and somber experience. Standing at the memorial fountain, walking through the cemetery, and pausing at Well #5 all carried more weight than just stops on a road trip. It was a chance to reflect on a tragedy that forever shaped this small town, and to see how its lessons continue to make Ontario’s communities safer today.
Twenty-five years later, the Walkerton water tragedy remains a powerful reminder of what’s at stake when safety is ignored. It also reminds us of the resilience of a community that continues to honour those lost, while moving forward with a commitment to never forget.
In 2010, a friend and I visited a place that felt frozen in time—an abandoned prison cemetery hidden deep in the Northern Ontario wilderness. Thirteen years later, we went back.
What we found was both familiar and completely changed.
The Burwash Industrial Prison Farm isn’t just an old correctional centre—it’s a strange and haunting mix of history, decay, and memory. The prison is long closed, the buildings are crumbling, and the cemetery tucked away in the forest has become almost forgotten.
But pieces of the past still linger there, if you know where to look.
The Burwash Industrial Farm opened in 1914, about 30 minutes south of Sudbury, Ontario. It was designed to be a self-sufficient correctional facility—almost like a village tucked away in the forest. At its peak, the property stretched across 35,000 acres and included a farm, a lumber operation and mill, a 20-bed hospital, and even a tailor shop.1
Burwash Industrial Farm housed between 180 and 820 minimum- and medium-security inmates, who typically served sentences of three months to two years, less a day.1 They spent their days working on the prison farm or doing maintenance around the property. The idea was that routine and hard work could help with rehabilitation. Over the years, the prison grew to include three permanent camps, and several temporary ones. It also became home to a small town of staff and their families, with a population between 600 and 1,000 people.1
The prison was remote by design—difficult to escape from, and just as difficult to reach unless you knew where you were going.
Over time, the facility became known as Camp Bison. The name comes from the herd of wood bison that once lived on the property.2 These animals roamed the land while the prison was active, and the nickname stuck even long after both the prison and bison were gone.
At the time Burwash was slated for closure in 1974, it was the largest industrial farm and the second-largest reformatory in Ontario’s correctional system.1 But the facility was considered too expensive to operate. That July, it was announced that Burwash would be shut down to save money.3 The staff were told they had to leave, and the inmates were relocated to other institutions. After that, the province began looking at alternative uses for the remaining buildings and the massive piece of land.3
What’s left today is a patchwork of wilderness, ruins, and stories.
Abandoned
After the prison shut down in 1975, most of the buildings were left to the elements. Over time, nature began to reclaim the site. The once-bustling correctional community turned into a ghost town.
Some structures were demolished, but a few—including the main cell block—were left standing, crumbling slowly in the woods. The site became a magnet for urban explorers, ghost hunters, photographers, and curious hikers.4
When we visited in 2010, it was quiet—eerily so. There were no signs, no official routes, and no other people around. Just long trails, wilderness, and the remains of buildings just barely holding on.
It was very surreal how, after driving through the wilderness on an ATV, the main cell block emerged out from the forest. The cracked windows, peeling paint, and eerie silence gave the place a haunted feel, even in broad daylight.
There was graffiti everywhere. Some of it was creepy, but a lot was just tagging and random vandalism. It was clear the site gets a lot of visitors—who weren’t always careful. Broken glass and porcelain, rusted metal, and signs of fires made it obvious that time, weather, and people had all left their marks.
Despite the damage, I found the experience strangely moving. It felt like walking through a lost chapter of history. There was a heaviness to the place, but also a sense that stories were still lingering in the walls.
It’s no surprise that Burwash has picked up a haunted reputation over the years. Visitors have reported strange noises, shadowy figures, and an overwhelming feeling of being watched. A prison guard supposedly haunts the prison, after having hanged himself when he learned that the place was closing. People say you can hear his nightstick tapping the metal bars, especially in the basement.5
Tucked away in the trees, at the edge of Cemetery Lake, is the Burwash Industrial Prison Farm Graveyard. This was the first prison graveyard I had ever visited, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. Its the final resting place of inmates who died while serving their prison sentences.
Most of the people buried here were prisoners who had no family to claim their remains. Between 12 to 20 inmates are believed to be buried in the cemetery, their graves marked only by simple wooden crosses.6 When the prison closed in 1975, no attempt was made to move them—the cemetery was simply abandoned.4
Records show that during the Spanish Flu epidemic in 1918, more than 30 people died at Burwash; including inmates, a nurse sent in from Toronto, and the wife of one prisoner who had come to visit.7 We don’t know for sure if any of these victims were buried in the cemetery, but it’s possible.
When we first visited in 2010, the cemetery was surprisingly accessible, although still hidden. The road was maintained, and I remember we were able to drive right up to it. The grass had been maintained, and though the markers were few, the space felt quietly cared for.
No polished stones or statues. Just plain wooden crosses. A few had small metal plaques. There was no formal cemetery sign, but a small framed sign hung on a tree near the entrance, quietly marking the space.
Thirteen years later, I came back. This time, the road was gone, and the cemetery was nearly unrecognizable.
It’s strange how a place can change so much.
In 2010, I remembered smooth roads and a tidy clearing. But in 2024, the gravel road was now a rugged, overgrown path—winding downhill, with deep ruts carved into the ground.
We parked in a grassy clearing nearby and walked into the forest. The bugs found us instantly, swarming like we were fresh meat. We followed what looked like a path through thick brush and knee-high grass.
Eventually, we reached a small clearing at the edge of the lake, the end of the road. I knew we had arrived—but it didn’t feel like the same place.
The cemetery was completely overgrown. Tall grass had swallowed the crosses whole. Most of the wooden markers were now broken or fallen. Any names or numbers that may have once been visible were long faded. Even the small frame marking the cemetery had been bleached by years of sun and rain, and was now blank.
It felt more like a ghost of a cemetery than a resting place. And yet, standing there, surrounded by wild grass and silence, I was reminded again why places like this matter.
Today, Burwash is a mix of forest, forgotten history, and scattered ruins.
If you’re planning to visit the prison, do your research and be prepared for an adventure. The site is on private land, and trespassers can be prosecuted. That said, Avalon Eco Resort offers a legal way to access the property, via a waiver and a small fee.3
There’s a small parking area near the train tracks, close to the start of a 4.5 km hike to the site. The road is no longer open to vehicles—only foot traffic, bikes, and ATVs. Parts of the trail are flooded, and while ATVs can get through, hikers and cyclists may have to get creative to find “alternative” paths.3
Visiting the cemetery is a different story. It’s not on private land, so there’s no need for special permission. But it’s still easy to miss in the forest, and it’s a bit of a hike.
Today, only fragments of Burwash remain. Most of the buildings are gone, but the land still whispers its stories. The cemetery is especially easy to miss if you don’t know it’s there. But for those who make the trip—who follow the overgrown path and brave the bugs to stand among the fallen crosses—it’s a place that stays with you.
Even in decay, Burwash reminds us how quickly places—and people—can disappear. But it also reminds us that memory lingers—in the rust, the rubble, and the wild grass growing where names once stood.
On a recent trip to Toronto with my fiancé, we found ourselves with a bit of free time to explore—and for me, that usually means a visit to a cemetery.
Our friends we were staying with suggested we take a walk to Prospect Cemetery, one of the larger and more historic burial grounds in Toronto. It was a chilly, grey day for late April, but despite the dreary weather, it was perfect for a quiet stroll.
There’s something extra special about sharing my love of cemeteries with others. I pointed out some grave symbolism along the way, and our friend—who used to bring their daughter here to bike ride—showed us some of their favourite gravestones.
But I also had a bit of a personal mission too: to visit the grave of J.E.H. MacDonald, one of the founding members of The Group of Seven.
Portrait of J.E.H. MacDonald. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
J.E.H. MacDonald
James Edward Hervey MacDonald was born in Durham, England in 1873 and moved to Canada with his family in 1887.1 He trained in commercial art and landed a job at Grip Ltd., a Toronto design firm that turned out to be a creative hot spot for future Group of Seven artists.2
MacDonald mostly painted with oil, a paint that let him build rich textures and bold, expressive brushwork into his landscapes. He had a special talent for using bright, sometimes unnatural colours to set a mood rather than literal realism. His style focused more toward the feelings and spirit of the landscape rather than detailed realism.2
He was especially inspired by the wild landscapes of Algoma and the Rocky Mountains. His 1916 painting The Tangled Garden shows just how much colour and movement played into his work.2 Besides painting, he also taught art and eventually became the principal of the Ontario College of Art in 1929.2 He helped shape not only Canadian art but also the next generation of artists.
The Tangled Garden, 1916, National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa, Ontario J. E. H. MacDonald, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Controversy
MacDonald made headlines again in late 2023—long after his death—but not for the reasons you’d expect.
The Vancouver Art Gallery had been showing ten oil sketches that were believed to be his work, donated back in 2015. But after some doubts were raised, experts took a closer look—and discovered they were fakes!3
Experts tested the pigments, looked at the brushstrokes, and compared the style to his known works. The materials didn’t match what MacDonald would’ve had during his lifetime, and the way the art was created didn’t quite fit either.4
In a refreshing move, the gallery didn’t just quietly pull the pieces—they created a whole exhibit about the forgery, cleverly called A Tangled Garden.4 The title, a nod to MacDonald’s famous painting, added a bit of irony to the situation.
I respect how the gallery handled it. They used the opportunity to teach people about how art is authenticated and how fakes are detected. In the end, MacDonald’s reputation stayed strong—no copy could ever capture the depth and meaning of his real work.
Prospect Cemetery
J.E.H. MacDonald passed away in 1932 after suffering a stroke. He was only 59. He’s buried in the family plot in Prospect Cemetery in Toronto.5 His grave is simple, tucked away among the rows of headstones. A foot stone with his initials J.E.H.M., and his birth and death dates sits in front of a larger family stone with the MacDonald name. Next to it is another foot stone marked W.H.M. / 1876—1956. I’m not certain, but I believe he might be laid to rest beside his brother, William Henry MacDonald.
There is another foot stone in the MacDonald family plot that is a bit of a mystery. The stone is engraved with the letters J.E.M. and the dates 1920-1926. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to uncover any details about this child’s grave.
Standing in front of MacDonald’s grave felt like another little win in my personal journey to visit the final resting places of all the Group of Seven artists. This was the third grave I’ve visited so far, and I find it fascinating how different each artist’s marker is.
Despite their fame, none of their gravestones are flashy. Like Franklin Carmichael’s grave, MacDonald’s grave didn’t have any grave goods—no paintbrushes, no small stones, no tiny canvases. But there was something powerful about the peacefulness of the spot.
There’s something grounding about visiting the grave of someone whose work you admire. You see where their story ended, but you also carry part of their legacy with you. That day in Prospect, under grey skies and the hum of city life just beyond the trees, felt like the perfect moment to reflect on MacDonald’s impact.
Whether through his bright, expressive paintings or the recent conversations around art authenticity, J.E.H. MacDonald still shapes how we see Canada. His grave may be modest, but his influence on Canadian art is anything but.
Bicycles often represent freedom and joy, but when painted flat white and placed by the roadside, they carry a much heavier meaning.
These “ghost bikes” mark the sites where cyclists have lost their lives, serving as haunting memorials and powerful reminders of the need for safer streets.
Ghost bikes are roadside memorials placed at locations where cyclists have been killed in traffic accidents. The bikes, painted entirely white, serve both as a tribute to the fallen and as a warning to motorists to share the road and drive safely.1
The first documented ghost bike appeared in St. Louis, Missouri, in 2003. A cyclist named Patrick Van Der Tuin witnessed a car hit a fellow rider and decided to take action. He placed an old bicycle at the crash site with a sign reading, “Cyclist Struck Here.”2
The idea spread quickly, and soon cities around the world began installing their own ghost bikes in memory of lost cyclists.
Beyond their role as memorials, ghost bikes have become global symbols for cycling advocacy. They are often installed by local organizations or loved ones who want to honour victims and raise awareness about road safety.2
Sudbury’s Ghost Bike
Ghost bikes aren’t unusual in Canada—they mark the tragic losses in communities just like mine. In my hometown of Sudbury, in 2017, a white bicycle appeared in memory of Dr. Robert Santo “Bob” D’Aloisio, a local cyclist who was struck and killed in a tragic accident.
His death deeply affected the community, sparking conversations about road safety and the need for better cycling infrastructure.3
It was a bit of a dreary day when my mother and I went to visit the ghost bike. It’s secured to a parking lot railing outside of an apartment complex on a busy street. I’ve driven by it many times but only really noticed it recently. The white bike blends into the white of the railing, so unless you’re looking for it, you might miss it entirely. That in itself feels symbolic—how easy it is to overlook something so significant if you’re not paying attention.
We kept our visit short since I didn’t want to take up anyone’s parking spot, but I made sure to take a moment to pause and reflect. While I was taking photos, I looked up at the tall apartment buildings surrounding us and thought about how someone could’ve easily witnessed the accident from their window.
Even after nine years, the ghost bike remains—a quiet, persistent reminder of the loss that took place there.
D’Aloisio’s passing was a devastating loss for his family and the cycling community. His loved ones continue to advocate for greater awareness and protection for cyclists. His story is a haunting reminder of the dangers cyclists face and the responsibility of all road users to ensure their safety.4
Park Lawn Cemetery
After visiting the ghost bike, we headed to our second stop—the cemetery.
Robert D’Aloisio is laid to rest at Park Lawn Cemetery. The cemetery itself is peaceful and tucked away, a contrast to the busy road where his memorial stands. The moment we stepped out of the car, it felt quieter, more reflective. I felt like I needed to visit both sites: the place where his life ended, and the place where he now rests.
The sun was beginning to peek out as we arrived, and the birds were singing. We wandered the gently curving paths for a few minutes before we came upon the D’Aloisio family plot. His gravestone is elegantly simple: polished granite with the family name at the top and a Latin cross separating his name from his wife’s, who is still living.
Visiting his stone, after having just stood at the place where his life was cut short, felt as if the threads of his story had tied together—from tragedy to rest.
Ghost bikes are powerful symbols, but the ultimate goal is to make them unnecessary.
Their presence speaks to the need for safer infrastructure, stricter enforcement of traffic laws, and a cultural shift toward respecting all road users. In Ontario and beyond, cyclists, pedestrians, and drivers must all coexist with caution and compassion.
With the warmer weather returning, more cyclists are hitting the roads. It’s a timely reminder for all of us—whether we’re behind the wheel, on a bike, or on foot—to slow down and share the road.
D’Aloisio’s story, like that of many others, is a call to action. Let’s honour his memory by advocating for safer roads and ensuring that cyclists can ride without fear.
Cemetery Photography by Chantal Larochelle 