When I first visited my in-laws’ cabin in Ontario’s north woods 35 years ago, there was no such thing as broadband Internet. The nearest telephone was a one-mile canoe paddle down the lake, and we were beyond the reach of television. Our media diet consisted of a battery-powered radio. I know I risk sounding like an aging crank, but it was paradise.

Now we’re cursed with all the riches of modern civilization. The cabin is just close enough to civilization to get a strong cellphone signal, and that goes for data too, via a mobile Wi-Fi hot spot. Our little bit of isolation is no more.

Instead of browsing dog-eared summer-house mystery novels and bodice rippers, this year we browsed the Internet. Instead of long evenings of Scrabble or Monopoly or poker, we checked our Twitter feeds and updated our Facebook pages.

And that, of course, is the problem with the Internet: It’s so easy that, unless you’re equipped with massive self-control, you use it if it’s there.