With Centennial College’s redevelopment plan in the works, the Guild Inn will soon be rubble, bringing an end to its extraordinary existence. A home for wealthy patrons of the arts, a hospital for veterans of the Second World War suffering from nervous disorders, and an upscale hotel, the structure functions today as a magnet for bored teenagers with nothing better to do than break into abandoned buildings.
Without help, piecing together the Guild Inn’s story would be impossible. Even at first glance, incongruous details leap out. Who has taken the time to paint the boards that cover the main building’s windows? Akin to putting lipstick on a pig, this minor artistic detail is lost next to the six-storey hotel addition that looks to be straight out of Chernobyl. Uncompromisingly grey, worn, and heavily boarded up, the latter add-on stands out in obvious—and hideous—contrast to the quaint original portion of the hotel built in the ’30s. Looking up at this filthy concrete monstrosity covered in a thick layer of snow, I feel as if I am stuck in Soviet Russia circa 1986.
The grounds of the Guild Inn are kept as a Toronto park. The scenic location sits on the Scarborough Bluffs, overlooking languid Lake Ontario. The Inn’s expansive property is a puzzling array of architectural scraps and sculptures. It seems this is where old buildings go to die. Amid the works designed by the Guild Inn resident sculptors (the position existed until recently) are the facades of several old buildings. A fire hall, a bank, and what could be part of an old school have been plunked seemingly at random by some god-hand. In-between these crumbling pieces of forgotten architecture are odder treasures: an abandoned greenhouse, a tiny belfry with bell, and what could be the axle of a train lie in the fresh snow.
Plaques are few and far between, so we make up the details ourselves. These ancient stone columns? Straight from a Roman temple, having witnessed the rise and fall of a mighty, if not arrogant, empire. That mysterious stack of sullen, rocky blocks must have been from a Mayan temple, its corners rounded by centuries of sandaled feet and human sacrifice. Coming across a carved face of Ontario wildflower painter Robert Holmes, I almost expect it to strike up a conversation. The stone-covered archway with a lion’s head at its frosted apex makes me wonder if I have stepped through the wardrobe and entered Narnia. Finally, a nugget of earnest truth emerges from a well-buried plaque: we have found the oldest building in Scarborough—a dinky log cabin hidden in the corner of the compound. The cabin was built by Augustus Jones and commissioned by the good Lord Simcoe himself.
We descend a long path to the base of the cliffs. On this windy day, it wouldn’t be hard to mistake our long-suffering lake for the ocean. The sun breaks through and spotlights a few plants coated in ice, victims of a shoddy real estate deal involving land too close to open water. I try to imagine this stretch of desolate beach six months ago, a difficult prospect as snow whips into our frozen faces. As we trek up the path, blocked by construction equipment working on an indiscernible project, we read a swath of graffiti on a backhoe: “Give us back our beach!” You can have the beach. I will be among the bricks, stones, and blocks of the curious Guild Inn.
