Peace lies over the Rainbow

'Come in!" says the young woman, peering around the glass panelled door at me. She holds it open and invites me in to the recently-renamed Rainbow Peace Hotel.

We step through into what used to be the reception area. There's the noise of banging and sawing coming from somewhere downstairs. "We've got a crew in the basement," she says apologetically, with a note in her voice that reminds me of a houseproud mum showing someone round her newly-extended semi.

Her name is Rubi, I learn - Rubi Robinson, 35, Pagan spiritual healer and mother of two "hardcore peace campaign children." They cling to her legs as we chat, giggling happily.

Rubi is a pleasant-looking woman in a sheepskin jacket and jeans, a ring in her nose. She's one of two dozen or so peace campaigners who have moved from the Peace Camp on Fulford Ings to take up residence in the former White Swan Hotel in Piccadilly. Their aim? To turn the long-disused hotel into a home, an ongoing peace protest, and a community arts centre for the people of York.

The Rainbow Peace Hotel: by the York people, for the York people. That's what the hastily painted sign on the door says. The door is kept locked: but peering through I was able to spot Rubi inside and tap on the window. Which was when she came to let me in.

The reception area inside is still dim, with a musty smell. But there are lights behind the counter, and Rubi says the power supply was never disconnected. "We're trying to get the bill in our name," she adds. "So we're not stealing any electricity."

There's a soft play area in the window, and a few benches scattered about. Some of the other residents are moving purposefully around, clearing, tidying and getting ready for the Rainbow Peace Hotel's first big public occasion: an open day tomorrow.

The idea is to invite the people of York in, offer them a cup of tea, show them around and talk about what the residents' aims are.

Rubi offers me a cup of tea. There may be electric power, but there's no running water yet, she apologises. "But the ladies from the public toilets are very helpful."

While she brews up, I chat to some of the other residents. Simon is tall, dark and lean, a 33-year-old scenic designer who used to work at Elvington. Recently, he's been living in Amsterdam, designing and decorating rooms for rave parties.

He came back to York a couple of months before the war against Iraq and when that broke out, got involved with the Peace Camp before moving to the hotel with other campaigners.

He clearly feels passionate about what is happening in Iraq, but admits at first he had his doubts about how effective a protest the Peace Camp would be.

"Then I read in The Guardian about the radicalisation of the Moslem world, and how the fact that there was such a strong anti-war movement in the UK and the US was stopping the situation getting too extreme, turning into a third crusade, Christian against Moslem," he says. "Many Arabs were saying 'it is not the whole population of England that is against us.'"

That encouraged him to continue with the protest. The idea of the Peace Hotel, he says, is to keep the anti-war message alive - and, by inviting people in, to chat and spread the word.

People reading The Sun probably have the impression the war is over, he says. But it is not: the fighting is still going on. "And what people don't realise is there are people in Iraq who are dying. Dying from lack of water, and cholera, and lack of medicines. Things we take for granted."

Tomorrow's open day won't be just about the war, however. It will also be a chance to showcase the hotel as a 'community arts centre' - and to let people see what the new residents have achieved.

The plans are ambitious: exhibitions, play and poetry readings, music, performances: possibly even parties in the soundproofed basement. A genuine community arts space, in other words.

There is plenty of room. According to Dan, a 20-year-old York Sixth Form College student who moved into the hotel after being with the peace camp, there are about 50 guest rooms, and probably as many other rooms of one kind or another.

While some areas are still damp and musty, others parts of the hotel are light, bright and inviting: especially after being spruced up by the artistic talents of the people now living there.

Dan gives me the guided tour. "This building was a waste of space," he says, leading me up the hotel's wonderful spiral staircase, the walls decorated with newly-applied swirls of colour. "We want to make it a useful part of the community where people can come in and spend time."

He shows me a first-floor bedroom that has been turned into an impromptu art gallery.

The walls are covered with breathtaking paintings in oil and pastel, the colours kindled into fire by the sunlight streaming through the window. All the work of a local artist called Ben who is staying here, Dan tells me proudly.

A little further along is the 'office': a large, airy room with a beautiful bay window and spectacular views up Parliament Street.

He shows me room after room, twisting along a maze of hotel corridors. Most are bare and plain - but a lot of work has gone into cleaning them.

Dan shows me one upstairs room the floor of which is decorated with a labyrinth design. It's what Rubi calls the hotel's 'healing space'.

"We have had to clear out all sorts of rubbish," Dan admits. "There were dead pigeons, and all sorts. And people had been breaking in and drinking bottles of cider and all that."

No sign of any of that now.

Downstairs, work is still going on to get everything ready for tomorrow's open day.

"There's a lot to do," says Simon, worriedly. Benches dragged up from the basement are being hastily covered to provide enough seating: and there are hopes that the water supply could even be restored, to the ground floor at least.

Ultimately the idea will be to get power throughout and proper flushing loos. "We don't want people to think this is your stereotypical squat," says Dan.

There's something touching about the care these people are lavishing on this old hotel, which has been neglected by its owners for so long.

But how long do they really think they'll be able to stay?

"Until we get kicked out," says Simon. And how long will that be? "How long is a piece of string?" They've heard nothing from the hotel's owners yet, he adds. "But from the time we get a writ we will probably get three months."

And then there's no more time for chatting. It's back to the important business of sprucing the hotel up ready for tomorrow's visitors.

Updated: 11:17 Friday, April 25, 2003