HUMBER SUMMIT BRIDGE

Arch and stairway, March 2013

The topic of gateways conveniently takes us to our final destination, up at the opposite end of the river in Humber Summit. Just below the northern city limits at Steeles Avenue, where the river takes a sharp turn from Rowntree Mills Park into the Thackeray Conservation Lands, one finds a 22-step staircase, far from any beaten path, leading down the wooded slope of the southeast bank to a tall concrete archway seemingly forgotten by all but a few intrepid vandals. Rising some 12 feet high, and tapering upwards from roughly 8 to 5 feet in width, this enigmatic frame defies any simple interpretation as it stands. Only when one turns their gaze to the other side of the river, and spies through a jumble of branches the vague outline of a doppelganger, does one ascertain the probable purpose of these twin structures. Here, we can safely assume, stand the towers of a former footbridge (most likely one of the suspension variety judging from the pair of grooves found at the top of each arch). But a bridge from whence to where we must ask? Currently to nowhere, as any cables or decking have long since vanished. Only the abovementioned names remain, and so again it is over them that we must cross to any sort of understanding.

 Remains on the North York side, 2013

While sitting much further north than where the titular mills of "Rowntree" once stood, our bridge still falls within the parameters of this sprawling park. It is interesting to note, however, that said mills were known during the days of their operation as the Greenholme Mills. So why this change of nomenclature? Aside from honouring the surname of their mid-19th century proprietor, could it be that Greenholme (likely from "green marsh" or "pond") is not quite as resonant an appellation as one which, as we're told by the ONC, arrives from the "rowan," otherwise known as the mountain ash? A tree which, aside from being another candidate species for Yggdrasil, and thus another pillar of the cosmic mill, derives its name from the colour of its berries, through an Indo-European source of all things "red" (either *(h)rowdos, or *reudh-, or some such root). A tree which, as we read in the Radfords' Encyclopedia is also "known in some districts as the wicken-tree, or the witch-tree, and almost everywhere it is, or was, credited with the power of averting witchcraft, fairies, disease, and the Evil Eye," adding that "it is sometimes said that rowans, more than any other tree, flourish near ancient stone circles and old burial places, and that Druids used their wood and berries in their magical arts." To this, with our equine history in mind, we might also cite:

In Yorkshire, there was a saying that "if your whipstock's made of rowan, you may ride your nag through any town." Carters and riders in many areas used such whips, or wore sprigs of rowan in their hats, in order to prevent witches bespelling their horses and either making them restive and unmanageable, or keeping them standing in one place, sometimes for hours.

Additional ties to previous subjects continue to appear as we head across the river, finding "Thackeray" to be a habitational name of Yorkshire extrusion meaning a "reed-thatched nook" or "corner" (of the Old Norse þak + vrá), from a certain parish "now submerged in Fewston reservoir" — thus enjoined through our studies in a sunken afterworld with Phaethon, Leander, Narcissus, Áed Ruad, the alchemical Red King, the Northumbrian King's Daughter, and, of course, poor little Percy Simcoe. These Thackeray Conservation Lands, we might also note, are the only portion of Toronto to sink below the rest of Steeles Avenue. Though normally too pervasive a thoroughfare to attract any toponymical investigation, the fact that this otherwise straight road takes an uncharacteristic dip right at the spot of our bridge seems to demand some further inquiry. To this end, "Steeles," as the name suggests, is an Anglo-Scots patronym linked to steel, likely referring to some ancestor who either worked in a foundry or displayed the hardened temperament of this alloy. While nothing immediately stands out as significant about the name in itself (aside from this metal's previously discussed use in reinforced concrete), we note that, as the lofty mountain ash of "Rowntree" opposes the watery depths of "Thackeray," we have in the resilient "Steeles" an apparent opposite to its nearest cross-Humber artery: the dainty "Primula" Crescent — so named for that genus of flowering plants whose most notable member is unquestionably the primrose.

This flower, we will note, commonly signifies youth, innocence, purity, and the like — although the Radfords' have collected a host of other, often darker superstitions attached to this delicate bloom. Oddly, most appear in relation to poultry and egg-laying, though we still find some degree of versatility beyond the coop:

A single primrose carried indoors, or given to any person, is the worst of all, for not only will this make the hens hatch only one egg out of each clutch, but it may also foretell or cause the death of a human member of the family. Untimely blooming is also a death omen, especially if it occurs in winter. In spite of all this, the primrose has its fortunate characteristics, and was once valued as a protection against witchcraft and the malice of fairies.

We later read of its medicinal use in such applications as sleep induction and reclaiming lost memories. The majority, however, will be most familiar with this flower from the proverbial "primrose path," which gently leads from leisure to tragedy — and which we first encounter in print during Act 1, Scene 3 of our old standby Hamlet; from the mouth of none other than Ophelia, whose infamous fate eventually leaves her drowned with Thackeray, and all the rest listed above.

 View across to the Etobicoke side, 2013

In adding just a few more botanical touches to this arrangement of primrose, reed, and rowan, let us recall that the Humber separates Etobicoke from the rest of Toronto — and, at this specific spot, from the borough of North York. Having already related "York" to the yew, we find "Etobicoke" to be a European corruption of the Mississaugan Wah-do-be-kang, or "place where the alders grow," again revealing a tree of much magical and mythic significance. Like the yew it holds certain associations with life and death, and like the rowan and primrose it has been used as a ward against sorcery. Particular to our investigations, the alder is generally renowned across numerous cultures as the "bleeding" tree due to the sanguine-coloured sap that emanates from it's pale white wood — a colour from which the "alder," like the rowan before it, ultimately gets its name (via the Proto-Indo-European *el-2, for anything "reddish-brown"). Etobicoke then links the redness of its alders to a king in the form of "Rexdale" ("king's valley"), the community at the northern end Etobicoke in which we find the western half of our bridge. As it happens, though, the alder is heavily associated with various mythological kings on its own; from the fiendish Erlking ("elven/alder-king") of Germanic lore, to the Celtic hero-king Brân the Blessed, who we mentioned briefly in relation to rooks/ravens earlier (his name being Welsh for this bird), and even to Arthur (though mostly through his relation to Brân).

We find Brân associated with the alder in such works as the Welsh Triads and the Book of Taliesin wherein he is identified during the Cad Goddeu ("Battle of the Trees") by a sprig of alder either in his hand or on his shield. Of particular interest to our site, however, is an episode from the Mabinogion in which the giant Brân laid himself upon piles of alderwood to span the river Liffey (Ptolemy's Avoca), forming a bridge over which his soldiers could cross into Ireland. Brân also attains toward certain aquatic/underworld associations by way of the Pair Dadeni ("cauldron of rebirth"), which held the power to re-animate the dead, but also, through its sacrificial destruction, led to his own bodily demise. Upon this occasion Brân's still-living head was buried beneath Bryn Gwyn, or the "White Hill" (later home to the Tower of London), where it was said to protect Britain so long as it rested in this place. When our "red king" Arthur later unearthed his head, so began the Saxon invasion under the flag of their White Horse or Dragon, which eventually led to the downfall of much of Celtic Britain. Brân is further connected to Arthurian legend through the common scholarly assumption that his tale prefigures that of the Fisher King, with the Pair Dadeni foreshadowing the Grail, and the wounded/body-less Brân representing the immobile Fisher King himself.

Alder, we should also note, is one of the sacred trees of the medieval Irish Ogham alphabet, described in the Bríatharogam as representing the letter Fearn. Yew was also counted among these characters as Iodhadh, and so was the rowan as Luis. Moreover, according to the Brehon Law of early Ireland certain "chieftain trees" were protected from felling on punishment of death, and careful examination of these laws over the centuries reveals the not infrequent promoting to, and demoting from "chieftain" status of these three particular species, often at the expense of each other in the hierarchy. In this way these trees have been somewhat set up as conflicting, if not outright opposites — particularly the alder and the yew, perhaps owing something to their inherent attributes, with the mortal (indeed, "bleeding") deciduous alder naturally opposing the immortal evergreen. We also find these trees contrasted in the aforementioned Cad Goddeu, wherein the alder is described as being front of line at the Battle of the Trees, whereas the yew (pine) and rowan (quicken-tree) both come late to the fray.

One might also note that this poetic battle is waged between the forces of Arawn, lord of Annwn (the Welsh under/otherworld) and the sons of Dôn (a Welsh ancestral figure of disputed gender, not to be confused with the Irish gods Donn or Danu — though not to be entirely disassociated from them either...nor with with any of the other "Don" relations thus far covered). As something of an aside, Arawn now brings to mind another episode from the Mabinogion, the legend of Pwyll, Lord of Dyved, which, in turn, brings to mind numerous other "relations thus far covered." While hunting one day in the woods of south Wales, Pwyll happens upon the hounds of Arawn (described as being white with red ears) who have just taken down a stag (shades of Actaeon and Artemis, or, perhaps, the apocalyptic "wolves" of Ursa Major). When Pwyll's own hounds set upon the stag he is made to do penance to Arawn by trading places with him in Annwn (shades of Castor and Pollux). After defeating Arawn's underworld rival Havgan, Pwyll is wedded to Rhiannon, who arrives on the scene riding a white horse and later gives birth to a foal (see equines, centaurs, and all the rest)...but, perhaps, we now digress too much.

Close-up of the steps, 2013

Turning, then, back to the bridge itself — and, indeed, to all bridges in general — we observe a universal symbol of connection and transition between one physical, mental, or spiritual state and another; between one plane of existence and the next. Yet what we have here, like that blockaded span in the Ferris Ravine, is an un-crossable bridge. As such, all of the relations and opposites as detailed above stand permanently divided, permanently opposed — forever facing-off across the shadowy Humber, never to meet or reconcile. All we have left of this broken bridge are two lonely portals. But again, one feels compelled to ask, portals from whence to where?

Of course, one may lead themselves rather far astray in assuming any answers from such mystifying questions, so, in ending, let us resist this compulsion momentarily and return to somewhat more tangible grounds by relating this ruin to yet another — one pregnant with still more ties to prior subjects, and one whose name, in fact, comes directly from "broken bridge" — "Pontefract" Castle (via the Latin pons + fractus), perhaps the most contentious stronghold in all of Yorkshire's (if not Britain's) history.

Both the castle and surrounding township acquired this name sometime at the close of the 11th century in reference to a crossing over the River Aire, demolished during William the Conqueror's infamous "Harrying of the North," that Norman king's destructive campaign of subjugation against the last remnants of Danish and Saxon rule in northern England. Later, Pontefract would gain infamy as the site of multiple conflicts between Royalist and Parliamentarian forces during the Civil Wars of the mid-17th century, eventually leading to the castle being slighted (that is, purposely ruined) due to its propensity for attracting violence.

Between these two episodes, however, there occurred certain events most relevant to our present studies, for it was here where the seeds of the Wars of the Roses — that 15th century conflict of "red" and "white kings" — are thought by many to have been sown. It was here, in 1322, that Thomas, 2nd Earl of the red rose House of Lancaster, was beheaded for daring to vie for power with his cousin King Edward II. Then it was here, in 1400, that Edward's great-grandson, King Richard II, was imprisoned and killed by Henry of Bolingbroke, now King Henry IV, first "red king" of the Lancastrian line. From here, we might add, the white rose Yorkist opponents of Lancaster made their claim to the throne through the deposed king's heir presumptive, Richard's cousin Edmund Mortimer — he of that "dead water" name which brings us back to the vicinity of our first ruined site at Todmorden Mills (named itself, as we'll now recall, for a village on the historic border between Yorkshire and Lancashire).

Such cyclical convenience is not, of course, to suggest any absolute connection between all, or even some of these ruins, and a centuries old battle of English royal houses. Nor, it must be said, are any of the other links so far explored meant to imply anything particularly definitive. Indeed, after all of our explorations, it could fairly be argued that the overall impression obtained from these studies remains abidingly indefinite; amounting to not much more than a nebulous assortment of themes and subjects faintly tethered to this odd collection of otherwise unrelated sites. Still, it cannot be denied that certain themes and subjects seem to recur among these ruins at a rate suggesting something more than just pure chance. What, then, might be gathered together from all this sundry material?