A chance and eclectic chat with a man on a bus taught me a new word: transpontine. The stranger told me it was particular to the Thames but when I checked the online dictionary, I was disappointed to find it actually refers to oceans (especially the Atlantic, when viewed from the British side).
The supposed specificity appealed to me, and resonated with the book I was reading around that time: Landmarks, by Robert MacFarlane. In it, he writes about the loss of language pertaining to nature, as technology and urbanisation has become an overwhelming feature in our daily experience. The in-depth understanding of our natural surroundings with its associated specialised vocabulary has given way to nonchalance and detachment, making us “indifferent to the distinction between things”. He documents a huge number of rare and obscure words. I had a geeky thrill at those words I knew, such as spuggie and sparrow-grass; but there was an equally nerdy delight at many of the words unknown to me.
There were, of course, words not recorded in Landmarks, and MacFarlane leaves space for “Glossary X… for future place-names and the reader’s own terms”. To this I have added gill woodland, the stade, and net shops, terms either new to me or long-forgotten having never really learned them properly to begin with. Two of these are very particular to Hastings, a place I visited a number of times as a teenager but had remained in my past until recently. The stade derives from an archaic Saxon word for “landing place”, and is aptly applied to the shingle beach in the Old Town of Hastings, which has Britain’s largest shore-launched fishing fleet. Net shops (as in workshops) relate to the distinctive tall black wooden huts used by the fishermen to store their equipment.
MacFarlane recognises that neither language nor nature is static, and so he also observes new words and readers’ made-up terms. As the grey, urban blandscape (a generic unit, such as field, hill, wood) is my local environment, I suggest some germane splicings of my own, referring to those easily overlooked plants of pavement and wall:
strimpet (from street and limpet, also encompasses imp)
i.e. a paving weed, especially those with persistent roots that are fiendish to winkle out.
Variations which are less satisfactory, but I’ll put out there anyway:
streed (from street and weed)
walleed (from wall and weed)
And a word to describe the paving itself which can become slippery in the rain:
yicey (from York stone and icey)
Returning to transpontine.. A slight alteration based on the old pronunciation of Thames (i.e. rhyming with James) could make it relate specifically to London’s main river: transpontame. Worth a punt?