What's in a name?

Sometimes I find enjoyment in the mere sounds of place names, with or without understanding their meanings; even adding my own through some obscure quasi-synaesthesic onomatopoeia. This goes deeper than the random whimsy of Douglas Adams and John Lloyd (The Meaning of Liff 1983); closer to the evocativeness described by Pete Wiggs, of band Saint Etienne, its name representing 1970s French “cool”, their work often associated with psychogeography. I did however enjoy Adams’ and Lloyd’s use of Dawlish (South Devon), as I recall, to describe that damp and musty smell from old clothes in a charity shop. Dawlish otherwise suggested somewhere staid and genteel, where my mother would have had cream teas in the 1930s. It would be many years before I actually visited, and found it largely matched my imagination. Genteel, picturesque and a bit frayed around the edges.

Here are just a few other places, whose names captivated me as soon as I visited.

I first visited the village of Llandegla (Sir Ddinbych) sixty years ago, and the name was somehow pleasurable and soothing to utter, like a favourite tipple. A few miles north of Llangollen where my family holidayed at the time, its name refers to the parish of St Tecla (not Tesla thankfully), dedicated to saint Tegla Forwyn. Equally evocative nearby, Minera (famed for its lead mines) sounded like somewhere either from Tolkien's pen or from ancient Greek legends: a good guess, as the name comes from ancient Latin for ‘mine+ore’ (Mwyngwladd in Cymraeg). Likewise Arthog (Gwynedd) sounds so haunting even before knowing it means the “bear’s cave”. Just as mysterious to me as a child was a hilltop patch of ancient woodland in Sussex known as Stoke Clump. At the site of a Bronze Age flint mine, its name invoked awe and even terror in its seemingly impenetrable “clumpiness”. Smaller these days, the clump is still a destination for hikers.

Further afield, some Portuguese names remind me of a warm sunny climate every time I hear or see them. They also conjure the delicious aroma of Bolo da Caco, the local garlic bread, similar to a large rustic muffin oozing olive oil. Caniçal and Camacha are villages at the eastern end of the island of Madeira. Caniçal was the first settlement on Madeira (c1489) as a fishing port, now a cargo port. Camacha was the site, in 1875, of the first organised football game anywhere in Portugal, celebrated in a monument in the village.

I have passed through both Drammen and Drymen and enjoyed their similar sounding names. Drammen (Drafn in Old Norse) is about thirty miles south of Oslo, where I was heading by bus from one of those airports that, thanks to “budget” airlines, is so far from its eponymous city it may as well have been in Scotland rather than Norway. Another ‘gateway’, the village of Drymen (Stirling) sits between Loch Lomond and The Trossachs, and was a popular stop for drovers and today for walkers on the West Highland Way. Both places have histories dating back variously to the Romans or old Norse, but that’s neither here nor there.

I don’t think it’s just me. As with place names, titles of organisations sometimes have unrelated associations in just the sound of the word. News media commonly refer to The Party of Wales (Plaid Cymru) as “Plaid” (which only means a Party, any Party: also “on behalf of”). Long before I knew, I attributed meaning just to its sound. To my then ignorant ear “plaid” sounded rather like “plight”, as if the party plied the nation denouncing its plight [maybe that’s the intention of Anglophone media]. I have complained to major news organisations when they repeatedly refer to “Plaid” in their headlines, asking them to clarify which Plaid they are referring to: Plaid Lafur (Labour), Plaid Ceidwadol (Tory), Plaid Ryddfrydol (Liberal) or Plaid Gomiwnyddol (Communist). The shorthand name seems to have become embedded for too many years, but I still look forward to the next round of canvassers asking who can look forward to my vote, so that I can reply “I will vote for a Party” [note: not The Party as in some other countries].

Returning to places, a new personal favourite must be Woking (Surrey). The legends of Saxon “Wocc '' and his “kin” are lost in mediaeval mists. A town I knew well for many years as something of a social hub [and only 24 minutes from Waterloo by train], it now has a name immediately bringing to mind that current political football, the notion of “Woke”, typically used pejoratively. I despair when I see that a human concern for discrimination and injustice is seen by “The Right” [aka The Wrong] as a bad thing. One recent April 1st, a tongue-in-cheek article suggested the town should even be renamed due to these associations. Instead, I look forward to ways of celebrating the town’s diverse multicultural and inclusive community, through a “Woking Festival of Woke”, “Awake the Woke”, or “Reclaim the Woke” [my suggestions; others welcome]. Bring it on. I’m happy to participate from afar in my adopted home: there is also a Woking Welsh Society. I leave it to the local inhabitants to make the festival a reality.

LINKS

The Meaning of Liff - Wikipedia

The Evocative Power of Place Names | HuffPost UK News (huffingtonpost.co.uk)

Camacha - Monumento ao Futebol (vanderkrogt.net)

Fake fur and Dr Martens: the young peer bringing change to the Lords | House of Lords | The Guardian

The culture war fight to rename Woking | TheArticle