On a recent trip to conference, my wife insisted that we take an extra day or two and drive through the middle of British Columbia and do things that the kids might enjoy, as opposed to, say, drive like a maniac for 8 hours, getting angry every time someone shouts that they have to pee. Obviously some people don't understand what it means to be a father on an extended driving trip, but this time I gave in.

Jo, my wife, remembered a place she had visited as a child, a magical place with a glass castle and all sorts of other marvelous sights, and she knew she wanted the boys to see them before they got older and too hip for that sort of thing (for the record, they're 8 and 5.5). The place, she was sure, was called The Enchanted Forest, and by God we were going to visit it. And so, on a day that intermittently either rained or threatened to rain, we pulled into the parking lot and abandoned the minivan, me after a few seconds of suppressing shudders as I viewed the castle and cement giraffe.

Perhaps I should have taken my parking experience as a sign; the place was busy, but I was able to grab a spot right in front of the entrance. And then admission was $23 Canadian, which wasn't bad at all, considering that just up the highway sat a suspension bridge over a waterfall that would have cost $16 if my wallet hadn't been so firmly lodged up my behind.

As is common with all tourist traps, the entrance and exit cut a meandering path through a gift shop, noisy with gullible patrons buying material memories. But there was a bonus! A sign stated that dogs were allowed on the premises, provided they remained leashed. I hustled back and retrieved Smokey, our Designated Mutt, and brought her back with me, hoping that she might relieve herself somewhere special as a surrogate of my displeasure.

Well, imagine my complete and utter surprise to find that I actually liked the place. To be sure, the folk art is often pretty hideous, but there's something kind of touching about all the work the original owners put into the place. There are, according to the web site, over 350 figurines, pretty much all of them based on fairy tales and nursery rhymes. Like almost all folk art, they are pretty atrocious to an eye accustomed to the prettified art of modern culture. Made of cement, they were constructed without the aid of any moulds, and so often the only shape that can be ascribed to them is "amoeba-like."