Designing a fictional language: part 2

Hello all! Welcome back to this series of articles on how to design a real-sounding naming system for your scifi/fantasy culture. In the last article we talked about designing a phonological system for your culture, which decided what sounds the members of your culture can make, followed by deciding what sounds they do make.



Today we’re going to design the syllable structure your culture uses. Once you know how your language’s syllables work, you’ll be able to design a few (or a lot) of them and begin stringing them together into a coherent-sounding set of names. Sound fun? Let’s do it.

A syllable, you might recall from school, is a string of speech sounds. They’re pronounced all at once, as a single gob of noise. In school you may have been taught that they tend to have a vowel sound at their middle (though this isn’t always the case) or you may have been taught that a syllable is the unit that gets assigned a poetic beat. However you want to think of them, the way a language builds them is a defining feature of the way the language sounds.

Before we continue, I’d like to remind you of the IPA chart, which you’ll want to refer to as you work. You’ll also want to have the phonological inventory you picked out for your culture, which you made after reading the previous article.

Have those? Good. Let’s go.

Natural languages show a ton of variation, and linguists have come up with a ton of theories of how syllables are structured. Some languages have whole parts of syllables that other languages never have. At the root, though, syllables consist of:

An onset: the first sound of the syllable, which is usually optional (meaning it can be left off of some syllables), and which consists of a consonant or a string of consonants.

A nucleus: the middle of the syllable. This is the only non-negotiable part of a syllable; it has to be there. No nucleus, no syllable. A nucleus is most often a vowel sound, though nasal and approximant consonant nuclei are common, too (in American English, work has an ɻ for its nucleus). Some languages even allow plosives to be nuclei. English allows fricatives to be nuclei for a few onomatopoeic words like shh and zzz.

A coda: the end of the syllable. Again this is often a consonant or group of consonants, and it is optional.

In addition, tonal languages have a tone for each syllable, which is considered to be part of the syllable structure.

Of course, a lot of languages do more complicated things than this. If you want to dive really deep into syllable structure and come up with something really complicated (and awesome!), I recommend you visit the Wikipedia article on syllables. There you can read about variations. Keep in mind that it is perfectly possible to build a complex, realistic, and beautiful language with only the basic structure, though. Only go deeper if you’re really interested.

Now let’s continue to design your language. Which of the syllable components does it include?

Onsets are optional but very common. They can consist of any consonant or string of consonants, though your language will have rules about precisely which strings of consonants are allowed. English allows st-, sp-, tr-, and str-, among others, for example, but it doesn’t allow sr- or tl-. Onset clusters tend to consist of sounds that are made around the same point of articulation. St- is two alveolar sounds, for example, and str- is those two alveolar sounds sliding into a retroflex, which is practically next door. Sp- is an alveolar followed by a bilabial—all near the front of the mouth. Kr- and gr-, both allowed by English, start with velar noises and roll them forward into that ever-friendly retroflex.

Take some time to consider what kind of onsets your language allows. Make a list. There is nothing wrong with making every consonant in your inventory into a possible onset.

Now to the nucleus. Your list of legal nuclei will include every vowel you chose from the IPA chart, including diphthongs and triphthongs. It can also include some consonants, though realistically, probably not all your consonants. Approximants and lateral approximants are common nucleus consonants, as are nasals. As I said earlier, a few languages even allow stops and fricatives.

Make a list of everything that can be a nucleus in your language.

Now for the coda. Like the onset, this consists of consonants. Like the onset it can be optional, either for some syllables in your language or for your language in general. Like the onset it can consist of a string of consonants as well as single consonants, though you need to define precisely what strings are acceptable. Again, there is nothing wrong with saying that every single consonant in your inventory is fair game for the coda—but there’s also nothing wrong with excluding some.

Make a list of everything that can be a coda in your language.

Lastly, is your language a tone language? Decide what tones it has. Rising, falling, high, low, and flat-but-whatever-the-previous-syllable-ended-on are common options.

Okay. Guess what you do now?

That’s right. You start to build syllables according to the rules you’ve just designed. Then you string the syllables together into names (or just leave them as single syllables.) You have a limited phonological inventory to work with as well as limitations on syllable structure. As you compose names by following these rules, the names will begin to have a characteristic look to them (and I say “look” because we’re only reading them at this point), just the way names from real cultures have characteristic looks to them.



As you design names, keep in mind that many names mean something. Prefixes and suffixes that indicate who a person’s parents are, what clan they belong to, or where they come from are very common. Think about your fictional culture. What do they value? What’s important about a person in that culture? Are those things likely to be represented in some of the culture’s names? Or maybe in all of the culture’s names? Think of the Mc-/Mac- prefix in Scottish and Irish culture. Think of -ovich and -ovna in Russian, of -son and -dottir in Icelandic.

Think of how many names a person likely has. A given name, a parent’s name with a prefix, and then a clan name, maybe? A family name with a suffix that indicates which branch of the family the person is from, followed by a personal given name? There are so many possibilities. Tap into some of them.

So there you go. You designed a phonological inventory and a syllable structure; now all you have to do is generate names, baby, all day and all night! You’re finished! You’re done! That’s all there is to it, huh?


For one thing, if you’ve been working in IPA you’re going to have to decide how to translate your names back into the Roman alphabet (or whatever other writing system you use.) But before that, you need one more lesson followed by a final, but dead important, exercise: PHONOLOGICAL TRANSFORMATIONS.

See you next week. Class dismissed.


Working Along

Okie dokie. Time for me to design my syllables.

I don’t know any tone languages, and I foresee difficulties in representing tones on the page using the Roman alphabet, so I’m not going to make my language a tone language.

My two inspiration words were “Wampanoag” and “Momoa”. Wampanoag is written with a consonant at the beginning, but the sound “wa” is actually a dipthong…which means it’s the nucleus of that syllable and not the onset, so I made onsets optional. I included all the single consonants as possible onsets, and a few likely-looking combinations.

For my syllable nuclei I included all the vowels (the way one does) as well as the retroflex trill and lateral.

Lastly, because I made the onset optional, I decided to go ahead and make the coda required just so all my syllables have heft. I added all consonants as options as well as a few combinations.


With all that established, it was time to start building syllables and names. I like the idea of names indicating someone’s hometown, so I made a suffix that indicates that. People in my culture have a given name and a surname that consists of the name of their hometown plus that suffix.



Designing a fictional language: part 1

Hello all!

I’ve been thinking lately about scifi and fantasy, and worldbuilding, and how one of the earliest things a writer (or this writer, anyway) does when designing a character is to come up with a name for that character.

Are you a worldbuilding nerd? Do you have characters and places to name? Would you like the names you choose to feel like they really belong together, like they all come from a particular place with a particular culture and feel to it? And would you like to lay the foundation for making up a whole fictional language for them while you’re doing it?

Lucky you, because I have a doctorate in linguistics, and I can tell you how.

What we need to do is to come up with a set of rules to describe how your culture’s language sounds (or, since we’re writing fiction here, how it looks on the page). To do this you’ll need to decide what its people’s vocal tracts are like, which will tell you what sounds they can make. Next you’ll decide which of those sounds they actually use. Then you’ll design the structure of their language’s syllables. At this point, you will know enough to go ahead and begin constructing names…or, if you want extra credit, you can go on to make up some phonological transformations first. That would be Tolkien-level stuff though, and do you want to be doing Tolkien-level stuff?

Yeah, I thought you probably did.

So without further ado, here is installment 1 in designing your scifi/fantasy language, with the specific goal of creating names.


Vocal Tracts


Vocal tracts are what birds and mammals use to make noises. They include everything that can be manipulated to make sounds using air that flows from the outside into the animal’s lungs and back out again.

Different kinds of animals can have different vocal tracts. Birds, for example, have a vocal tract that consists basically of a trachea, a syrinx, an oral cavity, an upper esophagus, and a beak. Mammals on the other hand have a laryngeal cavity or glottis, a pharynx, an oral cavity, and a nasal cavity. Humans specifically can also manipulate their tongue and lips to change the sounds their oral cavities make.

Are your characters humanoids? Are they actually humans? Are they not humanoid at all? That will affect their vocal tracts, which will affect what sounds they can make.

Before you get too excited, let me take you aside for a moment and have a serious talk about that. If your creatures aren’t even humanoids, they’ll still have to communicate to your readers somehow, using symbols for sounds that your readers understand. Your hero might be a gelatinous blob incapable of any noise but low-frequency humming, and that’s all very well, but you’ll have a hell of a time conveying it on the page.

You’ll encounter similar questions if your characters are birds, or if they have a syrinx like a bird…or even if they are mammalian but non-humanoid, like horses. Jonathan Swift did a bang-up job giving names to his intelligent horses, the Houyhnhnms, in Gulliver’s Travels, by the way. Just looking at “houyhnhnm” you see that it’s a sound a horse could make.

But it will be easiest and most straightforward to say that your characters are humanoid, or at least that they articulate like humans. Just saying.



If your characters are humanoid then they can make consonant sounds at a few basic points of articulation. They have flexible tongues and lips that can touch those places of articulation in different ways, too.

The basic kinds of consonants that humans make, broken down by what parts of the vocal tract are making them, are:

Glottal sounds, made with the glottis. That’s down near your vocal cords, the farthest down in your throat that you can manipulate sound, and the most familiar English glottal sound is H.

Pharyngeal sounds, made with the pharynx. English doesn’t have these! If you’d like to make a pharyngeal sound yourself, try making an H, but make it hiss. Our glottal H is by necessity pronounced without much turbulence of air, but the pharynx can be tightened, and a hissing H will do that. Some people make this sound when they’ve just taken a bite of really spicy food.

Uvular sounds, made against your uvula, that fleshy blob at the back of your mouth. A few English dialects from specific parts of the British Isles use a uvular sound at the end of the word “loch.” Standard American English doesn’t use uvular sounds.

Velar sounds, created by putting the back of the tongue against the soft palate, which is the soft part at the back of your mouth. Familiar English sounds here include K and G.

Palatal sounds, made with the middle part of the tongue against the hard palate, which is a fancy way of saying the top of your mouth. The English Y sound happens here.

Retroflex sounds, made with the tip of the tongue rolled backward to touch the hard palate. The usual English R is pronounced here, and some dialects pronounce L here too.

Postalveolar sounds are made with the tip of the tongue behind the alveolar ridge, which is the downward slope as you move from your hard palate toward your teeth. Many English speakers pronounce L here, as well as N.

Alveolar sounds are the tip of the tongue on the alveolar ridge. D, T, S, and Sh are here.

Dental sounds are created with the tip of the tongue against the back of the teeth. Think Th.

Labiodental sounds are created with the lips and teeth together. F, V.

Finally, bilabial sounds are made with the two lips together. Thing B, P, and M.

In addition to places of articulation, consonants have a manner of articulation. This describes how the sound is made, versus where it’s made.

Plosives are made by completely closing the vocal tract at the point of articulation, building up air pressure behind it, then releasing the pressure. Plosives include B, P, D, T, G, and K. They can be made with the vocal cords humming (in which case they’re called voiced) or still (unvoiced).

Nasals are made by closing the vocal tract at the point of articulation and letting air flow out the nose instead of out the mouth. English nasals include M, N, and Ng.

Trills are exactly how they sound: air is rapidly passed over the point of articulation, allowing brief puffs of sound to escape.

Taps or flaps are sort of like light plosives. The vocal tract is closed lightly so air escapes with relatively little force.

Fricatives are formed by narrowing the vocal tract just enough so that the escaping air becomes turbulent; think of rapids in a river. English fricatives include F, V, Th, S, Sh, Z and Zh.

Lateral fricatives (and lateral approximants too) are the same, but the air flow is diverted around either side of the tongue.

Lastly, approximants are sounds in which the vocal tract narrows at the point of articulation, but even less so than with fricatives. They are almost vowels, and in many cases serve the same purpose as vowels (like in the next lesson, when we’ll talk about what’s at the heart of a syllable). In English these include R, Y, and L, which is a lateral approximant.

If you, like me, prefer your information in chart form, then jump over here to see a chart of all the sounds that are made in known natural languages, then here to see the sounds in English specifically. Keep those tabs open, by the way. We’re going to be referring to them.

But what about the vowels, you say? Vowels are wild, that’s what. They don’t depend on hard points of articulation—they’re squishy-wishy slippy-slidey timey-wimey…uh…you get the idea. Suffice it to say they can happen anywhere inside the oral cavity. They can be tense or lax, which means you either tense or relax your vocal tract while you pronounce them, and they can be rounded, which means you make a circle with your lips when you pronounce them, like in the sound “oo”. In addition to this, a vowel can be a monophthong, meaning it is pronounced at just one place in the mouth, or it can be a diphthong, meaning it slides from one place to another, or it can be—wait for it—a triphthong, meaning it moves between three places. All English dialects have several diphthongs: the vowels in face, choice, goat, price, and mouth are all diphthongs. The Wikipedia article on English phonology claims that Received Pronunciation (which is a prescribed “proper” English accent, now falling out of favor but still common on BBC broadcasting) includes triphthongs, but it hasn’t given us any examples of them in use (phooey.)

Go back to the chart I sent you to earlier. This chart is fantastic because if you turn the sound up on your device, it will pronounce the sounds for you. You’ll notice besides the runs of consonants that English has there are series of consonants pronounced as a pop or click, while sucking air in instead of blowing it out, with an extra puff of air…there are lots of fun possibilities.

You’ll also notice that the letters English uses to represent familiar sounds aren’t always the same as the symbols used on this chart. An American R, for example, is ɻ on this chart. Our th- is represented as either θ (unvoiced) or ð (voiced). This system of symbols is called IPA, which stands for International Phonetic Alphabet. These symbols are used because people make more sounds than any alphabet has letters to represent them with. If you really want to keep your head straight as we move forward with constructing your culture’s names, get familiar with those symbols. You can do it. I’ve taught them to a gazillion undergraduate students. You can learn them too.

Spend some time with the IPA chart. Learn about all the wonderful noises humans can make. Try to make them yourself. Get excited about it. Take time with this step, because the next step is to use this chart to construct your language’s phonological inventory.

What’s that?

You’ll notice that English doesn’t use all the possible sounds. No language does. All languages use only a subset of all the noises the human vocal tract can produce. So the first thing you need to do to figure out how your language sounds is…you guessed it. Decide what your language’s subset is, and make a list.

Pick some or a lot of consonants—somewhere between ten and thirty.

Pick some or a lot of vowels—somewhere between three and twelve, say. Also decide if your language has diphthongs and triphthongs, and what they are.

Make your list using IPA symbols, if you can hack it. If you really hate all those little symbols and would rather use the familiar alphabet to write your sounds down, that’s fine too (this is all just fun and games anyway, right?)

You might want to look at the phonological inventories of languages other than English while you’re doing this. Look up Arabic’s. And Mandarin’s. Look up Navajo and Hawaiian. Just google “X phonology” where X is whatever language you’re interested in, and charts will be easy to find.

If you look at enough languages, you’ll notice that languages tend to have “trends” in their phonological inventories. Hawaiian doesn’t have any voiced stops, for example. Arabic has lots of sounds in the velar, uvular, and pharyngeal positions, a part of the vocal tract that English practically ignores. Navajo differentiates unaspirated, aspirated, and ejective stops. Mandarin differentiates tones—sounds spoken using rising, falling, and flat tones of voice. Isn’t that amazing?

So. As you are picking out your language’s phonological inventory, keep in mind that languages tend to have trends in their consonants. You can add consonants that have tones, that are clicks, that are aspirated…whatever makes you happy. Just keep in mind that at the end, you’ll have to figure out how to write it in the standard alphabet for your readers (because you might be willing to learn IPA for your craft, but your readers won’t be.)

At this point, if you are still writing characters who aren’t human, you can impose some broad logic about their phonological inventories based on what you decide about their vocal tracts. Are they cat-people with cleft upper lips, who can’t pronounce bilabial sounds? Do they have teeth like ours that allow dental sounds? Flexible tongues like ours? Do they have an extra point of articulation?

Enjoy yourself, and settle your choices. In the next article we’re going to build syllables.


Working Along

Each article in this series will end with a Working Along section, where I’ll make up a naming system at the same time you do, so you can see how I work.

For the sake of simplicity, my characters are human. Say they live on a colonized planet, a couple thousand years after colonization, when the parent cultures have been forgotten.

Below is an inventory of sounds I chose. When choosing yours, I recommend that you start with a word or handful of words that “sound” like your culture, for whatever reason, and use the sounds in those words as the seeds of your phonological inventory. If you already have a character name that you’re attached to then use those.

I started out by thinking of lovely mellifluous words without a lot of hard sounds, like “Wampanoag” and “Momoa.” I picked out the sounds used in them. Then, because I like them, I expanded the series of nasals, added some more velar/uvular/glottal sounds because I guess this language likes that part of the vocal tract, and finally added a trill because they’re fun.

Then I filled out my vowel inventory with mostly mid and back vowels, because that’s where so many of the consonants are happening. I finished off with four diphthongs.



Wordjoy: New in the Notebook II

Hey ho, Saturday Wordjoy in the Settlement. I’ve amassed a new crop of words in my notebook, so here they are.

Nyctophilia is love of the night, or of darkness (in other words, the tenebrous)

Connubial means having to do with marriage

A wodewose, alternatively spelled woodewose, woodwose, wodehouse, and any number of other ways, is a hairy wild man of European mythology. I’ve never heard a story about one, but they show up in illuminated manuscripts a lot

The virgule is the slash between words that can be substituted for each other in a sentence. Like and/or or he/she.

Birling is what lumberjacks do in cartoons: standing on a floating log and trying to spin it with their feet without falling off. I saw this word in context in some sort of Scottish environmental protest, though, to mean “spinning in one’s grave.” As in, “so-and-so is birling in his grave.”

Sticking to Scots, Doric is a mid-northern dialect of it.

Spindrift is the spray that wind sweeps across the surface of the sea

A mollyguard is a barrier that has to be broken through to get to your real target. Like the glass over a fire extinguisher, or the flip-over shield over the “launch the nukes” button. I saw this word in a discussion of its origins, which are recent. An early computer engineer, working with computers that had reset or power off or some such buttons on their towers, had to find a way to stop his young daughter, Molly, from pushing those buttons.

Dunnage is loose packing material used to stop the cargo from shifting in a ship’s hold or a modern shipping container

And a truepenny is a trusty fellow.

Hope you enjoyed it; see you again soon!

Wordjoy: archaeology

I might not be posting a Wordjoy every Saturday, but don’t let it be said it’s because I don’t have words. Never let it be said I’ve run out of words, because I haven’t.

How about a category today: archaeology. My books are heavily influenced by my Time Team addiction, and they do use the most wonderful words.

Take graves, for example. A common Iron Age burial was in a shallow pit lined with stones. This is called a cyst (pronounced with a hard c). Then rocks are piled on top to prevent animals from getting to the body. If this pile becomes quite tall, it’s called a cairn. Sometimes ancient peoples dug rooms out of hillsides to lay out their dead in, often many bodies, of a whole family or village. These are called barrows. If they burned the bodies, they did it on a pyre, and if the pyre was built over an open grave, for the ashes and unburned bits to fall into, that’s called a bustum burial.

British Iron Age people most often lived in roundhouses. These had low stone walls, then a tall thatched roof resting on a teepee of poles. The hearth would have been central, with smoke escaping out a hole in the point of the roof, and there was usually a little anteroom by the door to stop the fierce British wind and rain from getting it.

Sometimes a roundhouse had partial spokes inside its walls. This created a series of alcoves, useful maybe for giving people a bit of privacy, or maybe for separating different kinds of items being stored. This is called a wheelhouse, which isn’t at all the same as “that’s not in my wheelhouse.” That refers to the little room a ship’s steering wheel is in. I’ve also heard of large, luxurious carriages called wheelhouses … but maybe only by George R. R. Martin.

A settlement nearly always had a ditch, into which they threw their bones and other rubbish. This accumulated rubbish is called midden. One of the most common types of midden is broken pottery. A piece of it is called a potsherd. Not a shard. A sherd. When people have lived in a place so long that the accumulated foundations and midden begin to form an artificial hill, that hill is called a tel. As in Tel Aviv, or Tel el Amarna.

Hope you enjoyed this one. British Iron Age archaeology certainly fuels my imagination. Fingers crossed that I write another Wordjoy next week …

Wordjoy: new in the notebook

Hidey-ho, it’s Saturday Wordjoy, back after a hiatus. I have kept blogs for fifteen years now. I’m really good at posting lots of entries to them. I have been surprised to discover just how hard it is to maintain a regular, weekly entry on a particular subject, though. Color me surprised. So Wordjoy won’t be every Saturday from now on, but when I have some particularly good words saved up, I’ll share them with you.

So here we go: all the new words in my notebook since the last time I saw you.

Hoosegow is North American slang for prison

Automagical means appearing to happen by magic

A velleity is an idle wish, made without any intention of making it come true

Selenotropism is grown in response to moonlight. Whether this is a biological fact or an automagical velleity, I haven’t researched.

Banjaxed is Irish slang for broken, ruined, or destroyed

Campestral means relating to fields or open country (I told you there were a lot of “has the quality of” words)

A hivernant is a Metis hunter/trapper who overwintered on the Northern Plains, during the days of the fur trade, in order to hunt winter buffalo pelts to sell to the traders. A French verb that goes with that is hiverner, meaning to overwinter.

A nagoonberry is the familiar name for the Arctic raspberry, an exceptionally fine-tasting fruit that grows up the Pacific coast from Washington all the way to Alaska.

Lastly, a coureur du bois (not a courier, note) is a woodsman or trader of French origin. Up until the 1790s, even the Scottish fur traders wanted their overwinterers to be French.

A nice collection, isn’t it? Be back next time with something just as good …

Wordjoy: biome

Hey-o, Saturday Wordjoy. This week I’m talking about a group of words that I find singularly beautiful in themselves, and also evocative: the words for different biomes.

A biome is all the places on earth that have similar flora, fauna, and weather. “Desert” is a biome. “Freshwater” is a biome. Right here is a lovely map of the world’s land biomes, courtesy of Wikipedia. I am, by the way, more or less parroting Wikipedia articles in this post, though I first heard of biomes by playing Zoo Tycoon. If you play it, these will sound familiar. I won’t go through all the biomes, only the ones with very lovely names.

Tundra is what you might call arctic wasteland. The ground is permanently frozen so trees cannot grow. Just south of tundra you find taiga, where the ground freezes and thaws. Taiga is also called boreal forest. Taiga is usually evergreen. It can be found across much of Canada and Russia. At the border between tundra and taiga you sometimes find a drunken forest. In these, the annual melt and thaw makes the ground so unstable that trees can begin to fall but get stuck halfway over. If you watch The Last Alaskans, there is drunken forest in the segments near the Korth cabin.

Steppe is grasslands. A lot of Siberia is steppe; so are a lot of North America’s northern plains. The Dakotas, Montana, Wyoming. Those are steppe. Also called prairie.

Xeric shrubland is desert, but receives juuuuust enough water for small plants to grow. “Xeric” is a great word for Scrabble; it’s also the source for xeriscaping, the practice of landscaping with drought-resistant plants.

Now to the really lovely words: marine habitats.

The benthic zone is the bottom of a body of saltwater. Just above the floor is the demersal zone. If it is deep enough, it is part of the larger aphotic zone, or the part where less than 1% of sunlight penetrates. It’s the dark, cold place where creepies like anglerfish and gulper eels live.

Higher up where you do get light is the photic zone, which is topped by the pelagic zone. Pelagic is by definition (1) near the surface and (2) not near the shore.

There are a lot more wonderful words having to do with habitats, but I think that’s enough for now. I just love the sounds of the ones I’ve listed: benthic. Pelagic. Tundra. Taiga. Boreal. Hope you do, too.

Wordjoy: Qualities

Howdy do, it’s Saturday so it must be time for Wordjoy. This week I have a small collection of words for things that have the qualities of something else. This kind of word comes up fairly frequently on’s Word of the Day, and I’m sorry I’m not better about writing them down. Anyway, my favorites:

Something that is butyraceous has qualities of butter, which isn’t at all the same as saponaceous, having the qualities of soap. A person afflicted by or anything that reminds one of scurvy is scorbutic.

Something with the qualities of a lake is lacustrine, while something with the quality of stars is sidereal. That is not quite the same as being stelliferous, which means full of stars. Nor is it the same as numinous, or having the qualities of God. All these things may be tenebrous, meaning having the quality of darkness.

Something with qualities of stone is petrous, and a rock or mineral that grows in the shape of a cluster of grapes is botyroidal. *shakes head* I’m sure the language needed that word. (???)

See you next week!

Wordjoy: Mellow Fruitfulness

Hey-ho. Let’s head back to the country this week on Wordjoy to talk about fruit.

A couple of linguistically uninteresting but posh-sounding terms are soft fruit, which means exactly that, mostly berries that are too delicate to store or transport, and stone fruit, which are all the fruits with big, hard pits, like peaches, plums, apricots, and cherries.

Some fruit trees will drop only ripe fruit when shaken–no matter how hard you shake. Apple trees, I’m told, are like this. Some others, like pears and plums, require finesse in the shaking for fear of loosening unripe fruit along with the ripe. These trees require nurdling, or shaking -just- hard enough and in -just- the right way to make only the ripe fruit fall. Nurdling has other meanings: one can nurdle by insinuating a cricket ball into empty parts of the field, or one can nurdle in conversation by talking about things one knows not. But it’s also the graceful art of tree-shaking, and so be it.

If the fruit tree doesn’t belong to you but you take fruit from it anyway, that’s scrumping. One poaches game animals, scrumps fruit, and rustles both horses and timber.

Most fruits are best eaten ripe, but a few fruits are actually best eaten rotten. When we’re going to eat them it isn’t called rotting, though, it’s called bletting. Fruits that need to be bletted to be edible include quince, persimmon, sea buckthorn berries, and medlars. The medlar isn’t a common fruit anymore–I’ve never seen one in person–but when it’s bletted it has a brown skin that puckers around the base, earning its affectionate nicknames, monkey-bum and dog’s-arse.

Quince is a well-loved fruit of home preservers. It’s good for jelly and for everything on the desiccation lineup: you can dry the pulp into quince paste, dry it further to quince cheese, or really go crazy and make quince leather. Of course lots of other fruits can be made into pastes, cheese, and leathers too. Pumpkin leather was the all-purpose energy bar of the American colonies.

Lastly, some fruit tree management terms. In a previous entry I talked about pollarding or coppicing trees. That means to cut their trunks straight across so they send out lots of small branches. This isn’t something done to fruit trees, but sometimes they are espaliered. That means they’re planted up against a wall–usually south-facing for the warmth–and a small number of branches are trained to grow directly against the wall. This encourages heavy fruiting on the few branches that are left, ripens the fruit faster because the trees stay warm, and saves space inside a walled garden.

Here is a picture of a walled garden with espaliered apple trees:


That’s all for this week. Hope you enjoyed these fruity ramblings. See you next Saturday!

Wordjoy: smithing it

Yeah, I can’t ignore all the cool words one uses while metalworking. Not only because the Settlement has a blacksmith, but because my “real job” involves solder and flux and dross, and aren’t those COOL words?

Okay, here we go.

Ore is the unrefined version of any metal–it’s what you dig straight out of the ground, or pull off the bottom of a lake, in the case of bog iron. It usually doesn’t look like much.

If it’s iron ore, you might use a bloomery to refine it. That’s a primitive oven used to heat the ore with charcoal. The ore and charcoal react with oxygen, and two things drop out the bottom of the bloomery: slag, which is all the impurities you don’t want (except that the first run’s slag often has enough iron still in it to be worth putting through the bloomery again), and bloom, or sponge iron. This is the refined iron, which drip-drops into a big wad. It’s full of bubbles, which is how it gets it name.

Next you need to forge that iron. That means you heat the bloom and beat it with your hammer, again and again. This beating will work out more slag, and leave you with bar iron, the unformed version of wrought iron. Note that forging wrought iron is a primitive, fairly simple process. Making cast iron, on the other hand, requires temperatures and chemicals the world didn’t get its hands on in large quantities until the 19th century. It’s also worth noting that in the opening of season 4 of Game of Thrones, they cast two bloody swords, which is not how bloody blades are bloody made (they’re forged), but whatever. I guess it looked cool.

If you are melting metal, the melting process invariably brings out some impurities. These are called dross. One metal commonly melted is solder, which is a generic term for any low-melting point alloy used to attach two other pieces of metal to each other. To ensure the solder will flow properly, you wet your metal pieces with flux, which is any of a number of substances designed to do that job.

Two pieces of metal can also be joined by brazing, which is similar to soldering but happens at a much higher temperature and gives neater results.

A third technique for joining two metals is welding. In this process the two pieces of metal are actually melted together, unlike soldering and brazing, in which the basic pieces are unchanged.

I’m by no means an expert on all this. If you want more information on any of it, Wikipedia and YouTube are great places to start. If I’ve gotten anything wrong, by all means let me know, and I’ll fix it.

Hope you enjoyed!

Wordjoy: Going up the country

Hey hey, time for Saturday Wordjoy. This week we’re taking a walk in the English countryside.

First we’ll see a lot of cows (we’re in England, so they are cows, not coos). Since beast-housen is pretty much obsolete everywhere these-a-days, we’ll call the cowsheds byres. If we’re on a grand estate the cows might be bounded by steep-edged ditches called ha-has. Yes, really. A ha-ha stops cattle from crossing it without interrupting the view of the landscape. They were in special favor during Jane Austen’s time. In case we come across a regular fence or wall we want to cross, we should look for a stile: a set of narrow steps that allows humans to cross without opening a gate (and letting the coos … er, cows out).

There are sheep, too. It’s springtime so the ewes are ready for tupping, or being bred. If you spot a ram he might be wearing a raddle, a device strapped to his chest and filled with blue chalk to mark the ewes he tups. In Return of the Native, Diggory Venn is the reddleman. He sold reddle, a reddish chalk that used to be used in raddles.

Now, goats escape because they’re smart, but sheep escape because they’re stupid. Any hole in a fence and they’re off. To prevent this, the English invented the art of hedgelaying. Americans hear “hedge” and think of neatly clipped evergreen, but hawthorn trees were the favorite material for traditional English hedges. One would use a billhook or brummock, a heavy curved knife, to cut the trunks nearly through, lay the trees down, and pleach them, or weave them together. The trees then grew into a nearly impenetrable mass of thorns.

Another tree that was important was the willow. In the spring their pollen-bearing bodies are covered in velvety fur. These bodies are called catkins, because they’re as soft as little cats. Willow sprouts in long, flexible branches that are cut into withies. Withies are used to thatch roofs and to make wattle fences–you set out a series of stakes or staves where you want the fence to be, and weave the withies back and forth through the stakes. Withies were in such demand that willows were often pollarded, or cut just to their forks, so they would grow a large number of new shoots. Another word for pollard is coppice.

And I think that’s a good place to stop for this week. It’s a wide world of words in the English countryside, so I have more entries on the topic planned. See you next Saturday!