It’s a Sunday afternoon and I’m in a taxi heading for the 1 Hotel Toronto. I follow my reflection in the windows of passing skyscrapers until we disappear around a corner, and emerge into the quiet safety of Wellington Street.
Gradually, the landscape lowers and glass turns to stone; King West Village, formerly Toronto’s industrial area, welcomes me with a clean, brick-and-mortar charm.
Toronto
The 1 Hotel Toronto comes into view at the end of the street and I exhale; a glass awning protects double-doors made of pale wood, tucked behind a garden of green, clay-potted vines, birch saplings and carved driftwood. Already, reverence for nature, one of the hotel’s core philosophies, precedes its reputation as one of Toronto’s most luxurious stays.
An urban sanctuary by design, 1 Hotel Toronto is built entirely with natural, locally reclaimed materials, through which every last drop of water is filtered. To my left, a wall of ivy cascades over intermittent panels of maple and there’s a table offering cold lemon water and a bounty of fresh, local fruit. Paper, canopy-like chandeliers softly illuminate the marble front-desk as well as the imperfect surface of raw granite slabs floating against the wall behind it.
Later that evening, I check out Harriet’s Rooftop, the 1’s acclaimed pool-deck and Japanese-fusion inspired restaurant, which overlooks Toronto’s now molten, evening skyline, silhouetting the city like a New Yorker cover. Harriet’s menu includes honey-garlic glazed edamame, smoked shishito peppers, fresh salmon tataki, pork yakiniku bao with scallion mango salsa, Prince Edward Island oysters, and ube chocolate torte. With the knowledge that wellness is also provided in the form of delicious food here, a quick glance at the setting sun over glittering Lake Ontario in the South ushers me to my meticulously designed room, where I’m welcomed with a fresh green juice and metal bottle of purified water with added electrolytes – every detail is driven by the purpose of sustainability.
My intentions are gently attuned through the bedroom’s decor and detail: the exclusive use of leather, cork, wood and marble; the hour glass in the shower to time water usage; a stone engraved with instructions on how to leave overpacked or unwanted clothes for donation; plantable, seeded notes regarding my stay; and small, cleverly hidden reminders throughout the room to limit my consumption,
Eight restful hours later, my first stop is lunch in the The Distillery District. Just a quick drive from the hotel, this cobblestoned, pedestrian-only development once housed the largest whiskey distillery in the British Empire, and its spectacular 19th-century buildings are open for public discovery today. In 2000, a decade after the distillery closed its doors, the area was used for major film production, and was eventually developed into an eclectic hub for arts, food and events, which transforms into Toronto’s annual Christmas Market every November and December (tickets are on sale from 15 September). I sit down on El Catrin’s sunny terrace, a dia de los muertos art-inspired Mexican restaurant and District staple, and discover a flavourful spread of small, zesty plates to share, as well as one of over 70 types of tequilas from their nine-tiered bar.
Next, I flash forward through 19th century architecture into the sunlit maze of downtown high-rises, blink, and find myself somewhere in between: Kensington Market. Diagon Alley’s contemporary cousin, Kensington Market is a must-experience, beatnik kaleidoscope of culture and community, tucked in an enclave of Toronto’s Chinatown. In the late 1700s, British government officials and military officers lived in the area, until a member of the militia sub-divided his 156-acre estate into smaller lots, creating a middle-class suburb. In the early 1900s, Toronto’s Jewish immigrant community – who, along with the Chinese population, were forced to settle in the working-class Ward District of Toronto – moved into the area and transformed tea-parlours into small businesses. Eventually, Chinese, Jewish and Italian residents lived in Kensington Market, which would become one of Toronto’s many cultural micro-universes. Today, this bohemian neighbourhood pulses with diverse life. Busk artists and musicians fill the streets with music, open-air food trucks and hole-in-the-wall restaurants fuse Jamaican, Italian, Mexican, Lebanese and Chinese fare, independent artisans sell pre-loved clothes and vintage treasures on the hop-scotch sidewalks, and students sit on grassy roofs smoking joints. Sunshine and tequila paint the market technicolour, and I float down its lively streets with all five senses tingling, while the famously evasive Kensington cat oversees the whirlwind. Vintage T-shirt, leftovers from the market’s famous Jamaican-Italian joint Rasta Pasta, and an open-mic night stub in hand, I return to my Wellington Street hotel, ready for tomorrow’s adventure: the magnificent Niagara Falls.
Niagara
The one-and-a-half hour journey south, towards the New York State border, is the day’s first testament to Ontario’s natural and geographic versatility. Winding, tree-lined roads along the Niagara river, through rolling vineyards and New England-style cottages – which Winston Churchill quoted “was the prettiest drive in the world” during his 1943 visit – lead to a thunderous, local wonder. One-fifth of the world’s freshwater continuously plunges 188 feet over Niagara Falls, a wall of sheer hydropower, fed by Lake Superior, Michigan, Huron and Erie. Niagara has a rich indigenous history, many of its settlers having come through this area, until the local people’s frontier was pushed back after the War of 1812, when the US-Canadian border was confirmed. Today, the Falls offer a number of educational tours which shed light on this history, including a journey through the 130-year-old tunnels behind the structure’s bedrock, a thrilling boat ride under the Falls, and a zip-line across the Niagara River rapids.
With ears still ringing, I braid my damp hair as we wind back down the enchanting road alongside the Niagara River, paying a visit to the Peller Estates Winery. This is a fitting afternoon activity, considering Niagara is home to some of the most prestigious wineries in Canada. The Peller Estates – recipient of national and international wine awards, and host of over 280,000 annual visitors – is best known for its signature Riesling Icewine. In March of 1927, Andrew Peller sailed from Hungary to Halifax with the dream to establish and spread a Canadian wine culture. Thirty-four years later, he opened a modest vineyard in British Columbia’s Okanagan Valley, which eventually led to the opening of Peller wineries across the province, as well as in Nova Scotia and Ontario. As the business grew, his son joined his side and began the family legacy, and in 1989, Andrew’s grandson, John, became the third generation to continue his work. Standing in one of Peller’s elegantly vast cellars, I try their famous Riesling. Winter is a season most Canadians have a complicated relationship with. Yes, there’s skiing, sledding, sugaring off (a maple-syrup season celebration) and holiday cheer, but with deep-freezing temperatures, short, dark days, blizzards and ice storms, it can be no short of a bitter hellscape. Alcohol usually helps, though, and in this moment, I feel the elusive tingle of Canadian winter-pride as the sweet, award-winning, liquid-gold warms me right up. Pressed from grapes frozen on the vine, and only harvested when the air temperature remains at a consistent -8°C, this Riesling truly demonstrates the resourceful, Canadian culture of squeezing the most out of what life has to offer.
Algonquin Provincial Park
Back on the riverside road, a thin but confident ray of northern sun reaches for me through the window, waking me to a wall of bright fall colours whizzing by. Finally, we’re in Algonquin Provincial Park. The close proximity between the province’s urban and rural areas, and the ease with which I have explored them today, is a true Canadian characteristic. Soon, I am lifejacket-clad and paddling Canoe Lake, one of Algonquin’s most picturesque. My stoic, knowledgable guide steers us into a strong headwind, and an endless expanse of gold and crimson foliage rustling over the white-caps, with an ease cultivated over years spent befriending the elements. Time seems to bend, as he tells the story of Tom Thomson, the painter, pioneer and member of the Group of Seven – Canada’s own artistic vanguard – whose untimely drowning remains a national mystery. His work, vibrant and untamed, immortalised the rugged beauty of this place, and laid the foundation for the iconic Group of Seven, whose brushstrokes captured not only the wildness of Ontario, but also the Canadian soul, shaping how the world would one day come to see its landscape. Ashore two hours later, I bid my guide farewell. He tips his cap in return, already paddling halfway across the lake, eager to rejoin the wind. I squint under the blinding sun, watching the faraway red of his canoe flashing over a wave before vanishing in the blink of an eye, and wonder if Tom Thomson’s spirit has just paid me a visit.
Early evening paints the canopies indigo, and nature’s time-keeper, the Canadian loon, calls towards shelter. The Arowhon Pines Inn, a haven nestled deep in the heart of the park, welcomes me home. Built to harmonise with its surroundings, the inn radiates a purity that seems borrowed from the forest itself. Towering pines embrace the quiet property dotted with cedar cabins, their stillness reflected on Arowhon’s small, private lake, Little Joe. As I take my first deep breath of the week, a robed couple walks towards me from the water, having just taken a swim. This moment – the impromptu post-lake debrief – is familiar, and jumping in a cold lake is a ‘when’ not ‘if’ ritual, especially when temperatures begin to drop, and the plunge requires some perseverance. Warm or cold, the plunge is inevitable, though, and imparting its invigorating effects is a subsequent rite. I learn that the couple have just driven across Canada, and have chosen to celebrate their final stop at Arowhon, where they’ve been coming for years – a warming statistic I soon come to appreciate is shared by most guests here this weekend.
“Cold?” I finally ask my new friends, but it’s less of a question and more of a salute. “Well, no ice yet!” They answer, insinuating that the mere capability to swim trumps any pre-freezing temperature. I smile in agreement, my country-heart beaming.
An hour and a half later, I saunter down the sunlit path towards the main lodge with wet hair and rosy cheeks, and am welcomed by a flurry of happiness, Arowhon’s mascots: a Burmese Mountain Dog named Pekoe, and two Golden Retrievers named Hank and Lucy, the last of whom shares my post-lake dampness. Sharing excited hellos, they follow me inside the lodge where, built around a wood-burning hearth enveloping the room in warmth, couples and families sit at white-linen tables, their laughing faces and steaming plates of potatoes, wild salmon and juicy steak illuminated by the golden light pouring in through pine windows all around. If Arowhon is the heart of the park, the feeling in this room is the heart of Arowhon.
Pekoe, Hank and Lucy disperse – happily greeted by the well-acquainted diners – when Arowhon’s majority owner, Theresa, notices my admiration. She shares her philosophy; after inheriting the inn from its previous owners, she committed to never developing it, preserving the simple purity and communal spirit Arowhon’s guests continuously return to and for. She’s watched them grow up, experience first heart breaks, hosted their weddings and welcomed their children. Outside, the setting Ontario sun dips below the treetops, and bathes Little Joe, Algonquin, Niagara and Toronto in the same light.
“This place is like family,” she says with a smile, “it really is.”
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