A Love Letter to Prince Edward County, Where Time Moves Like Honey and Everyone Actually Gives a DamnI went to Prince Edward County on business. Two days, over fifty businesses to visit. I was there to introduce local shops to our newly launched BTC App—September baby, still got that new app smell. The plan was surgical: in, pitch, out, next.The County had other plans.What actually happened? I made it to exactly twelve businesses in 48 hours because I couldn't stop talking to people. Not networking. Not schmoozing. Actually talking. Like humans used to do before we all became walking LinkedIn profiles.Catherine Pacak at POA Studio? We talked for nearly an hour. An HOUR. In retail time, that's basically a lifetime. She wasn't checking her phone, wasn't eyeing the door, wasn't giving me the polite-but-get-the-fuck-out smile. She was just... there. Present. Asking real questions. Telling real stories. Making me remember why I started this whole magazine thing in the first place—because connection matters more than content metrics.And that's the thing about Prince Edward County that no tourism board will tell you: It's not just pretty. It's not just sophisticated. It's a place where people still look at each other. Where "How are you?" isn't rhetorical. Where a wine tasting turns into a therapy session and nobody's mad about it.Let's talk about "The County" (only tourists call it Prince Edward County, like only tourists call San Francisco "Frisco"). It's this almost-island jutting into Lake Ontario, about two and a half hours from Toronto, where vineyards kiss the water and Victorian buildings house boutique hotels. It's Napa Valley's cooler, less try-hard Canadian cousin who reads actual books and makes their own kombucha.But here's what the travel blogs won't tell you: The County isn't great because of what it has. It's great because of what it doesn't have. No Starbucks on every corner. No mall. No sense that everyone's racing toward some invisible finish line. Instead, you get purple barns full of Chardonnay, shops where the owners remember your name after one visit, and the radical notion that maybe, just maybe, we don't all have to be hustling every goddamn minute.When Business Becomes Pleasure (And Pizza)I stopped for lunch at The Royal Hotel because a girl's gotta eat, and holy shit. The pizza. THE PIZZA. Wood-fired perfection that made me reconsider every life choice that led me to eating pizza anywhere else. But then—because apparently The County doesn't do anything halfway—I ended up buying croissants and sourdough from their bakery that were so good I ate one in my car like some kind of carb goblin. No shame. Only flaky, buttery bliss.This is what I mean about The County: You go in for lunch, you leave with an armload of baked goods and an existential crisis about why you don't live somewhere that makes bread this good.At the Merrill House – If you’ve ever wanted to live inside a Victorian fantasy without the drafty hallways, check out the Merrill House. Rich in character, dripping with charm, and run by the kind of women who make you feel less like a guest and more like family.Walking in, I felt like a harlot from the 1800s making her grand entrance—lace, scandal, and all. I came to introduce myself and the app. Twenty minutes later, I was laughing so hard I had to excuse myself to use their bathroom. THEIR BATHROOM. These women—who manage this Victorian B&B like it’s their personal mission to restore your faith in humanity—had me cackling over stories of their worst guests, their best wines, and the time someone asked if the house was haunted. (It’s not, but they considered inventing a ghost just for the Airbnb reviews.)It’s indulgent, it’s intimate, and it’s the kind of place that sends you home with not just memories, but anecdotes you’ll retell at every dinner party for the next decade.The Universe Has a Sense of Humor (And It Lives in The County)On my way home, already drunk on human connection and possibly Chardonnay, I spotted PEC Wine Tours. Three women were standing outside, and because I apparently can't help myself, I stopped to chat. Within minutes, I was telling them about my day, apologizing for being "such a Chatty Cathy."One of them—silver-haired, perfect lipstick, the kind of woman who definitely has stories—looked at me and said, "You're too young to know about Chatty Cathy. That was a doll from the 1940s." Then she added, "I still have mine."She STILL HAS HERS.At some point she said something slightly pessimistic about the weather or business or who knows what, and I—because I have no filter when I'm happy—said, "Oh, stop being such a Negative Nancy."The silence. The other two women burst out laughing."Her name is Nancy," one managed to say through tears. "And that's literally what we call her. Negative Nancy."Nancy—ACTUAL NANCY—stood there grinning. "Been my nickname since forever. I'm a twin, and I was always the pessimistic one."I almost fell over. "You're a TWIN?"Here's the thing: I'm a dad of twins. And I literally—LITERALLY—call my kids Chatty Cathy and Negative Nancy when they're being, well, chatty or negative. It's our thing. They roll their eyes, I keep saying it, family tradition in the making.So here I am, a twin dad, accidentally calling an actual twin named Nancy "Negative Nancy"—which is her actual nickname—after discussing Chatty Cathy dolls from the 1940s. What are the fucking odds? In what universe does this happen?This universe. The County universe. Where coincidences aren't coincidences, they're the universe showing off.Nancy and I stood there laughing—two people connected by twins, by nicknames, by the absolute absurdity of this moment. My twins would die. They'd absolutely die. "Only you, Papa," they'd say. "Only you would accidentally stumble into this."This is when I knew The County wasn't just a place. It was some kind of vortex where the universe comes to fuck with you in the best possible way. Where a business trip turns into a series of perfect, impossible moments that make you wonder if someone up there is just having a laugh at how perfectly weird life can be.A Hundred Ways to Fall in LoveLook, I could tell you about all the wineries—and there are dozens, each with their own personality, their own purple barn or lakefront view or vegan certification. I could list every boutique, every spa, every perfectly curated shop where the owners actually give a damn about you finding exactly what you need, even if it means sending you to their competitor down the street.But that's not the point.The point is that The County offers something we've forgotten we need: genuine human connection served alongside really good wine. It's a place where business meetings turn into therapy sessions, where lunch turns into a religious experience with pizza, where three strangers will teach you about 1940s dolls and make you feel like you've known them forever.The Secret Ingredient Is Actually Giving a FuckEvery person I met in The County was genuinely interested in everyone else. Not networking-interested. Not what-can-you-do-for-me interested. Just... interested.The boutique owner who spent an hour telling me about her customers' lives—not their sizes, their LIVES. The B&B owners who had me in stitches over nothing and everything. The wine tour ladies who turned a two-minute interaction into a memory I'll carry forever.One shop owner told me, "We're all in this together here. If someone comes looking for something I don't have, I walk them down the street to someone who does. Their success is our success."When's the last time you heard that in Toronto? Or New York? Or anywhere?I thought I was going to The County to launch an app. To check boxes. To visit fifty businesses in forty-eight hours like some kind of capitalist superhero.Instead, I found myself sitting in my car, eating the world's most perfect croissant, thinking about Catherine at POA who really saw me, about the Merrill House women who made me laugh until I cried, about three strangers who gave me a history lesson wrapped in a moment of pure joy.This is what we've lost. This is what we're all scrolling through our phones trying to find. Connection. Presence. The radical act of slowing the fuck down long enough to learn about a doll from the 1940s.Your Permission Slip to Give a DamnThe County doesn't ask you to care more. It just creates space for you to care differently. To care slower. To care with wine in your hand and someone actually listening to your answer when they ask how you are.You don't go to Prince Edward County to escape your life. You go to remember what life feels like when you're actually living it. When you're not performing it for Instagram or optimizing it for productivity or apologizing for taking up space in it.You go to eat pizza that makes you question everything. To laugh with strangers who become friends. To buy bread that's so good you eat it in your car like a secret. To learn about Chatty Cathy dolls and realize that the best moments are the ones you never planned.Two days. Fifty businesses on my list. Twelve actual visits. One bathroom break from laughing too hard. Three women who schooled me on vintage dolls. And a County full of people who haven't forgotten that the best luxury isn't what you can buy—it's how you feel when someone genuinely gives a damn.So go. Book any of the dozens of places to stay—Victorian B&Bs, Nordic cabins, boutique hotels, they're all good because the people are good. Eat the pizza. Buy the bread. Try all the wine—there are more wineries than you can hit in a week, each one different, each one worth it. Talk to strangers. Learn about dolls. Laugh until you need the bathroom.The County is calling. Answer with your whole heart.And maybe your credit card. Those croissants really are fucking incredible.Between the Covers traveled to Prince Edward County in September to launch the BTC App with local businesses. We stayed longer than planned. We regret nothing.
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