SCARBOROUGH BLUFFS ARTIFACTS

Looming object, April 2014

Returning now to the object in said space, perhaps its most distinguishing feature is its similarity to another object, now apparently lost, but which once graced the lake shore at the base of the Scarborough Bluffs. Photographic evidence of this erstwhile structure is scant, but what it shows appears to be another concrete cube, again with a rectangular opening on the north facing side, but all very much bigger than the Windfields object — perhaps 10 feet all around, if not more. Certainly large enough for one to enter. Additional features of the north face then seem to include a small circular hole to the right of the main opening, and a vertical slot to the right of that, running along the length of its western edge.

The exact location of this structure is difficult to pinpoint. One will find no trace of it today anywhere along the Bluffs. Aerial photographs from the middle of the last century, however, seem to show a cubical object, and portions of a wall, along the beach south of Cecil Crescent. This object would seem to have survived the creation of Bluffers Park in the 1970s, but by the 1980s there is no longer any sign of it from above (although shore-level footage of the structure exists up into the 1990s). Whether the structure was moved, or there were two separate structures is unclear. All that can be said is there are no such cubes at the Bluffs any more.

Photograph of mysterious structure by G. Dunbar, 1990 (above);
aerial view of cubical object from 1960 (below)


What is still there, some 300 meters down shore and about 50 meters out into the water, is another strange concrete structure. Roughly 10 meters in length, 3 meters wide, and extending who-knows-how-far into the lake bed below, this object pokes out above the waves like the last vestige of a great cement shipwreck. But a ship it was not, for we know this object wasn't always lost at sea. Aerial photography from the 1960s shows the structure clearly fixed to the shoreline (though seemingly apropos of nothing else in this isolated area). From there we can track its gradual journey off shore through an apparently combined process of erosion and landscaping.

 View from atop the Bluffs, 2002 (left); view from Google Earth, 2017 (right);
progressive aerial views from 1966, 1989, and 2014 (centre)

But even this is not nearly the most remarkable submerged structure along the Scarborough coast. From the foot of Livingston Road further up the shore, just at the southwest tip of Guildwood Park, one will see (when conditions are clear) a pair of massive structures sitting just below the surface of the lake, roughly 10 meters out. The two rectangular forms lay end to end, each approximately 40 meters by 8, being then further subdivided into 6 interior cells. The material of their construction is unclear as one can see only their ghostly outlines from the land. As with so many of the other structures thus far discussed, the purpose of their construction would seem equally unclear. Superficially, one notes that they tend to follow the foundation plan of certain Norse long-houses, specifically those of the Jutish (read "Danish") variety. However, a less outlandish explanation would appear to be at hand. Documents relating to the Metropolitan Toronto and Region's 1980 Shoreline Management Program seem to solve the mystery thusly:

The initial stage in the protection of this property [the Guild Inn shoreline] involved
the sinking of three barges just east of Livingston Road to serve as offshore
breakwaters to retain a beach in front of the bluff.

Still and all, this does beg another quite obvious question: what ever happened to the third barge? It, like the enigmatic cube, appears to have vanished into the Scarborough ether. What secrets have the Bluffs, then, refused to tell? Were these artifacts plundered away by raiders, like Scarborough's alleged Viking namesake, Thorgils Skarthi? Or, did they move of their own accord as the name "Livingston," as in living stone, might imply? Noting the "six" compartments of the sunken barges, what further relation might be drawn to the structure at "Cecil" Crescent, a name arriving from the Brittonic Seissylt, a Welsh variant of the Latin Sextus? Observing their current invisibility, what, then, that an alternate meaning for "Cecil," provided to us by the ONC, is "an English form of the Latin Caecilius, an old Roman family name derived from the byname Caecus, 'blind.'" Have we been simply blind to their form, or location — or, like a mirage, were they never really there at all, leaving each of us truly bluffed from the outset?


View of sunken barge from the Bluffs, 2003 (above);
view from Google Earth, 2017 (below)

Putting such casual wordplay aside, it may nonetheless serve to linger on the Viking connection just a little while longer — at least with respect to the missing barge — observing that the sinking/setting adrift of vessels, and even the burial of entire ships, was a preferred funerary custom among the pagan Northmen. It may, in fact, serve to re-examine many things from a Nordic point of view at this juncture. Indeed, from runic symbols and Hamlet's Mill, to Denmark Crescent and burials at sea, things seem to have taken a sudden turn to the Norse with our last few sites. But perhaps this should not be so surprising, as we have thus far been overlooking a rather obvious part of Toronto's toponymy.

The previous name of the city, township, and surrounding county was, of course, York. And what significance has this to the Norse? Only that the original English York was once capital of Jórvík (present day Yorkshire, and home to the original Scarborough), the kingdom at the heart of what was known as the Danelaw, seat of Scandinavian control in Britain during the 9th and 10th centuries. Prior to this, York served as capital of the Anglo-Scots kingdom of Northumbria, and before that as capital of the Roman province of Britannia Inferior. York has also been the home of an important bishopric (and now archbishopric, recalling the Bishop's Cross) since these most early times, eventually sending messengers of the diocese, such as St. Sigfrid, back across the North Sea to play an instrumental role in converting the pagan Norse to Christianity. Here then, wrapped all in one unique locale, we seem to find a nucleus for all the disparate Celtic, Germanic, Classical, and Christian strains which appear to suggest themselves in so many of the sites we've been investigating.

The name "York" itself is thought to come (by way of Jórvík, Eoforwic, and Eboracum) from the ancient Celtic/Brythonic Eburakon, meaning "place of the yew trees." Compare this now with "Toronto," likely derived from the Mohawk name Tkaronto meaning "place where trees stand in/over the water," noting that our indigenous variety of yew (taxus canadensis) is found mostly in marshy or swampy habitats, along riverbanks and shorelines. As for the European species (taxus baccata) we find in this yew a tree steeped in mythic and religious import, sacred to both pagans and Christians alike. Being an evergreen of exceptionally long life, the yew is a staple of grave sites, churchyards, and various funerary rituals, representing immortality, resurrection, and life after death. Conversely, being a highly toxic tree (recalling, now, the "poison" implications of our Bishop's Cross), it can often represent, or be applied towards death in itself. As such, would it simply be more casual wordplay to address the deathly connotations of Lieutenant John Graves Simcoe, to whom we owe the renaming of Toronto to "York" — or of his wife, Elizabeth Posthuma Gwillim, to whom we allegedly owe the naming of Scarborough? Now, in considering Toronto's toponymical transition from the aquatic to the deadly, what thought are we to give to the fact that, as a child, Simcoe witnessed his younger brother Percy drown in the river near his home?

Leaving such questions temporarily aside, let us lastly note that, beyond the realms of death, the Celts found the yew imbued with various other magical and authoritative properties. It's wood traditionally served as the material for the White Wand or Rod, a symbol of Gaelic sovereignty and kingship since ancient times. It could also, however, be turned to political subterfuge, as we find in this peculiar anecdote from E. & M. Radford's Encyclopedia of Superstitions:

In the Scottish Highlands, in the days of clan warfare, there was a curious tradition which said that if a chief took a piece of churchyard yew in his left hand, and then denounced or threatened his enemy, the latter, though present, would hear nothing, though all around could hear quite clearly what was said. This, presumably, enabled the speaker to claim afterwards that he had given due warning of his intentions, whilst at the same time retaining the advantages of a surprise attack on a totally unprepared victim.

Having thus traversed the Scarborough Bluffs, facing deafness, blindness, and even death, let us now move on to our next ruined site, lest one more affliction befall us.