Fruktkohk vor te Séjel

On Jameld

2009-07-08T11:34:00.001Z

Six and twenty (and some) years ago
Was I smit by a rare and precious thing:
A condition of the mind that,
Like a symbiont, would both enrich and feed off its host.

It is a disease of sound
And marks on paper
And a feel for what is right –
Not absolutely, but for a mind in my mind.

So forth they came – and come:
Bons mots like hauf, and thren
And maltzas, klivbend, ledzibret;
And zatsandfröda, prince of all that’s felt.

Yet more: a land emerged
Of forest, hill and shattered castle;
A river to name it
And a people who love the nobly inept.

And what of me, infected as a boy
By all this glossomania?
Am I a better man of it?
I know not, but I know me more.

2008 räiz ï Zuraalant / 2008 visit to Zuraaland

2008-08-20T10:37:00.015Z

Et mak isten sedzi tes te potst eri’st et tes te blog wä tsüfan aunttsspreng vor. Tügo et’st ansi bilati, et eri’st meü bitallin ew meü haräiz ï Zuraalant, te wénellauk Jameldits homzlant, int Martts 27 A.J. Et wä an dëharäiz – vor an del an temzyurarepemin ew meü auntts räiz ï te konträ int Yüli 17 A.J. Et wés an bitallin (int Anglaz) ete 17-räiz int »The Jameld Line« eri (wist biklér tes Zuraalant, an 400-quadretkilometer parsk ew nüdlauk Elsaas int Franki nech te Déttsaz granz, »na jist an politikits entité, no an geografits konträ, int sortyilauk wïs és Rïnlant, Tsoirkhéthadaal, ëğ Mare Tranquillitatis. ... Te konträ jist nimeni pasts te watarwäi tes flat pu iet, Zur-aa«). Met iğé soch räize wen ike dëharäiz plaze au ike istave vorvor, ike will béda visen dëvö te plaze ike liubta und desdecken nüaw plaze und binelévnase ’e skaten. Zuraalant ave tsohni ghules, wïti wadines und dramatits ruéni börges, und zo me dëharäizta t’isem tsohni ghules und wïti wadines und ans ew t’isem börges, no me puprochta jund tsüdrist int ans ete thropes tes me mesrighta t’auntts tsüda und stëz moran börges tes wä nüaw vor ime. Te drïf wrun Anglant – via te Kanaltunnel, Belgi, Lüxembörg und Déttsi – wä relativ possinmönös: et wä gut, pozirul meü auto dödaa grusem veln te voralin wökt pozirts an flati zel. Förtunlauk, pasts te helne ew t’AA (te Britaz yilaukwerthel ete ZAZ, ëğ Zuraz Automobilar Zolidaton), te doroği eldi tes optprobta bi äl bitrautssem wïl te 3 000 km räiz.	It could be said that this post is what this blog was originally created for. Although somewhat belated, this is my report of my visit to Zuraaland, the notional Jameldic homeland, in March 2008. This was a return visit, partly a 10th-anniversary commemoration of my first trip to the area in July 1998 – a report of sorts of which can be found in The Jameld Line here (which notes that Zuraaland, a 150-square-mile area of northern Alsace in France next to the German border, “is not a political entity, but a geographical area, in much the same way as the Rhineland, the Blackmore Vale, or the Sea of Tranquillity. ... The region is named after the waterway that flows through it, the River Sauer (in Jameld, Zur-Aa)”). So, as with all such trips revisiting old haunts, one wishes to see again the places one loved and also to discover new places and experiences to treasure. Zuraaland is a place of rolling hills, forests and dramatic ruined castles, and so I revisited the same rolling hills and forests and some of the same castles, while also spending time in some of the villages I missed first time round and climbing several castles which were new to me. The drive from England – via the Channel Tunnel, Belgium, Luxembourg and Germany – was relatively uneventful, which was just as well as my car had died spectacularly on me only a week previously with a deceased battery. However, after the ministrations of the AA that night, the old girl proved to be almost a complete paragon of reliability on the 2000-mile trip.
T’Alfa, zeyen iet The car made it there, and all the way back (Klick fotos vor bigrunden) (Click photos to enlarge)
T’intgäl ï Zuraalant wrun Bitts int Lothring endlink te D 35/D 3 jist an threnquartwerth ew ans ete gutüt drïfviase me känne: et wés veln böya vour thropes tes ike mot biditsken vor, und te retst ete ruta jist an bilokin mighel ew linki trïtes und fasti krames pu wadinfulli daales und zessemi bargpäse, met iğé te wärpin intérets ye zicht wuntsen. M’aa veln thren däis ’e puprinğen inte konträ, und vor t’auntts däi (an Freydäi) ergi wether wä trau vorsedzi, zo me jolkläzta na ’e bikümnen waa und lendi no ’e jolfurtsen met t’auto. Te däi bikom an expediton vor fulyen te rin ew Zur-aa wrun etü optsalt tolk ther te granz int Déttsi, pu te bitseltin daales und thropes, ï te plaz au et ajö intï Rïn-aa nëir Selz, böya 16 km nüdvest wrun Bätesü Bätes. Et wés wëth fotos, no most ist grei und migeri, zo me na tsald mackten et linkwïlsem met itemt.	The entry into Zuraaland from Bitche in Lorraine along the D 35/D 3 is three-quarters of an hour of some of the best driving roads I know – there are only about four villages to slow down for, and the rest of the route is an enticing mixture of long straights and sweeping curves through forested valleys and minor mountain passes, with all the twists and turns you could wish for. I only had three days to spend in the area, and sadly the first day (a Friday) was forecast to have poor weather, so rather than get wet and miserable I decided to spend it exploring via vehicular means. The day turned into an expedition to trace the course of the Zur-Aa (River Sauer/Saarbach) from its origins just over the border in Germany, through the various valleys and villages, to the point where it empties into the Rhine at Seltz (about 10 miles north-west of Baden-Baden). There are lots of photos, but most of them are grey and drizzly, so I’ll spare you the details.
Zur-aa int Wörth The River Sauer in Wœrth
Inte vatsind m’ïstranta ’e dëharäizen te Brézonaz kremparé int Haaghane tes me frodha so int mëu voralin haräiz. Me yilukta met ’e fïndien iet – na wirri pasts temz yuras und met veln an vaagi repev – no et’st jüji an Tsinaz restaurant. Na krempes.	Sadly my crepuscular efforts to revisit the Breton crêperie in Haguenau I so enjoyed on my previous visit came to naught: I was overjoyed to find the place again (not bad after 10 years and only a vague memory), but it’s now a Chinese restaurant.
Jorthelquadrat int Wissembörg, ferttstät ete Kultüreli Konträ Zuraalant Quai Anselmann/Quai du 24 Novembre in Wissembourg, capital of the Cultural Region of Zuraaland
Samüdäi morn wä rïght und (ansi) klér, zo m’otparidha mi met ans firts krassones und abräizta vor bisemelen börges. Te räizruta intslét Kans’-Karlin-Päs und vour ruénes: Fleckensténbörg – aquzü t’intthrikinüt, no jüji ruéni int an jüteli nüaw wïs ük te bend-ohnmerki tsrës ew aktöres wi fénzta ’e isten quali inte karkeras; Wasgensténbörg – an tes me vista veln ot te ferth te delet tsüda, und tes optprobta met nëo untersokin und klederin ’e isten te most varalauk ew iğé Zuraz börges; Luzelhertbörg – an bifrödin peltsmassa met an torn bui ohn te top, au me steörta nanwohn an yungi pär ax te noffelin; und ï t’slüt Tsohneckbörg – lön ohn te top ew an ghul und yirighebel opt an ansi brutali 30-ménit zovat, no werthi. Te sonnen tsanta uvërd ohn ime, und me grinzta lauk an yecki grinzin lët.	Saturday dawned bright and clear(-ish), so armed with some fresh croissants I set off to bag some castles. The itinerary included my favourite placename in the area, the Col du Pfaffenschlick, followed by four ruins: Château de Fleckenstein – still the most impressive, but now ruined in a whole new way by the taped screams of actors pretending to be tortured in the dungeons; Château de Wasigenstein – one that I only saw from afar last time, and which turned out on closer inspection and clambering to be the most dangerous of the lot; Château de Lutzelhardt – a delightful lump of rock with a tower built on top, where I inadvertently disturbed a young couple mid-clinch; and finally Château de Schœneck – perched on top of a hill and reachable via a moderately brutal 30-minute climb, but worth it. The sun beat down on me, and I grinned like a mad grinning person.
Varalauk, te börges, na wér? Dangerous, these castles... Fleckensténbörg Château de Fleckenstein
Wasgensténbörg Château de Wasigenstein
Wasgensténbörg, aquzü Château de Wasigenstein, again
Luzelhertbörg Château de Lutzelhardt
Te Sonnendäi te wether wä dëvö ansi erg, zo me jolfurtsta tstil an pau thropes vorvor me brükta an sonneni period vor dëharäizen Eldi Wintsténbörg, ets an oterördernlauk varalauk röti peltssül tes voralin generatones macktaa intï an (bimäudlauk) ansi nanbihaaglauk homz. Me less te konträ Mondäi nëir mitdäi, no auntts me fulyeta an bilinki böyalïdhin vor haräizen ans thropes tes me mesrighaa, und zo an delet pelgrinräiz opt Wintersbarg, te hiüt ghul int Zuraalant, und an optstïzin ete torn ohn etü top vor eldi tsüdasü sak.	On the Sunday the weather was once again rather dubious, so I quietly explored a few villages before taking advantage of a sunny spell to revisit Château Vieux Windstein, another extraordinarily dangerous red outcrop which previous generations had fashioned into a presumably rather uncomfortable home. I left the area on Monday at lunchtime after a protracted diversion to visit a number of villages I’d missed, but not before a final pilgrimage up Grand Wintersberg, the highest hill in Zuraaland, and an ascent of the tower on top of it for old times’ sake.
An foto wrun te top ete torn ohn Wintersbarg “Arty” shot from the top of the tower on Grand Wintersberg
Zowïs köminta te ditsk, bikalmi räiz homzand tes beni böya 48 tsüdres. Intedédh, tügo me säir »ditsk«, et na jist äldrüchi: meü ruta intslét an linki delin ete Déttsaz A 1 autoruta tisk Saarbrucke und Trefs tes ave aquzü na nawnasgranz. Me lavta t’Alfa an minik extra fridhom, und et tsen tes et werthtsetha iet. Pastsand et wä an ohnyinimi pär tsüdres int Lüxembörg, pu Echternach und Diekirch, vorvor me yirighta meü ninholt, Stavelot int zudüst Belgi. Resates wi ave benzën int t’éres tsald bikümnen elévinan wenpasts Stavelot jist nimeni, pozirts etü chadofsem historits biyungatones ï te në autoressinrondan Spa-Francorchamps. Intedédh, Stavelot jist veln an prechti tstät, no destsildyë ime: me salt jüji vorand ï te necht vorvormit, wen me drëf böyäd t’eldi rondan (most ew et jist aquzü üvretani viase). Gaasjöü... M’olt ïand t’intwäi ete niy rondan (absolut te grautüt Formul Aunt rondan tes wés, me yilob nankan) und fund tes me zochta anvülen int, wondräen pu t’ajöi tribünes, grönmen nech te lïdhplankas ohn La Source und visen é an Audi tsportauto at etü tes. Necht et köminta ’e tsnöen. Tsé me jist an dhular, no et wä vor ime an prizani und anstes surréalistits binelévnas ’e staren int Spa, visen tint te ferttrït ïand Eau Rouge inte tsnö und obzerfen an ressauto thräyen fonkes ohn an ete most dramatits kornes inte wérlt.	Thus began the slow, leisurely journey home which would take about 48 hours. Actually, I say “slow”, but that is not entirely accurate: my route took in a long stretch of the German A 1 autobahn between Saarbrücken and Trier, which is still unencumbered by speed limits. I allowed the Alfa a little extra latitude, and it seemed to appreciate the run. There followed a pleasant couple of hours in Luxembourg, passing through Echternach and Diekirch, before I eventually ended up at my stop for the night, Stavelot in south-east Belgium. Readers with petrol running through their veins will immediately perk up at the mention of the town of Stavelot, thanks to its heady historical connections to the nearby motor racing circuit of Spa-Francorchamps. It’s actually quite a pretty town as well, but forgive me if I skip straight on to the following morning as I recall driving around the old circuit (most of which is public roads to this day). Goosebumps. I tooled up to the entrance of the modern circuit (absolutely the greatest Formula One circuit there is, in my humble opinion) and found I was able to stroll in, wander through the empty stands and loiter at the barriers at La Source hairpin watching an Audi sports car do its stuff. Then it started to snow. Call me a fool, but standing at Spa, looking down the main straight towards Eau Rouge in the snow, watching a racing car bottom out and throw sparks on one of the most dramatic corners in the world, was a glorious and slightly surreal experience.
Eau Rouge. Oh jey Eau Rouge. Oh yeah
Vorvor 4 pasü te necht däi me wä homz dëvö, met an jel kofer fulli ew mol intéretsin Belğaz biares, repeves ew an otüt nanvorgeslauk räiz, und thäches böya te nüaw framkis me macktaa und t’eldi framkites me dëdesdeckaa (me tsald na mackten item bilön eri). Int meü hant et wés an laak papir tes ave ohn iet ans willkurlauk notas: moméntes (ighblinkes, eöx ye werkilauk will), repeves, und tese tes som te binelévnas ew ’e isten au me wä. Eri’st an kur: ’e Isten kläzi Mondäis. ’e Nazë kännen widar ansan tsald otkümnen ot an ëstvias ohn ikeü dreche hant. Eüropaz (nan-Zuraz!) wékas: dessini fränvor iğé vor biranden yeü produkton, und vor bikümnen laaz ew iet veln és an paststhäch. Nanpuvitsi parkbigranzines (jey, Brugge, me paptts böya iye). Nanbitsrati bätzomtsflures – tsé unterflurbikohli, int biyilaukaton ï item int Norwég, wist ist unterflurbitsrati. Und elektritskontaktes int bätzomtses, no na kontaktes vor skar-aparates. Strätes, dorogi dëpavéi, dessini vor biditsken puprïtin bikér. Te bigrïp ew »digos« und »aperos«. Eldi monnes int Elsaas wi nazë visave an drechestüri auto und wi wïz und chrije. Yungi monnes int Elsaas wi nazë visave an drechestüri auto und wi will kännen widar te yadrëfvas jist t’isem wäi böyäd. Autorutaserfisstatones au ike full te tank und necht drïf vorand ï an zëïstaton – wist jist ohn te lavte hant, zo automobilares wi drïf Britaz autos mot holten, toden te motor, otstapen und anvülen böyäd t’auto vor zëïen; et werkilauk unterhü te fulz ghregvor. Pinsli Déttsaz nawnasgranze: 50 kmts vor wëth kilometeres eöx te vias jist tolk an ëstiminik bëli. Oterlantits kussines: quadretits, ajö, und nanjolpartin. »Lasagne« met tsink int iet. Ëgh. Ï te voralin m’ave tolk ets an: ’e Will salten dëvö int t’auto und zaräizen nanparski ï Zuraalant wen ike ïkümne homz.	By tea-time on the following day I was back home with a half-bootful of rather interesting Belgian beers, looking back on a rather memorable trip and thinking of the new friends I’d made and the old friendships I’d rediscovered (I’ll spare their blushes here). I have in my hand a piece of paper which bears various random scribblings: moments, memories and things which sum up the experience of being where I was. A selection: Being shut on Mondays. Never knowing whether someone’s going to emerge from a small turning on your right-hand side. European toilets: designed primarily to frame and display your output, and to dispose of it only as an afterthought. Impenetrable parking restrictions (particularly in Bruges). Unheated bathroom floors – possibly underfloor-refrigerated, in comparison with those in Norway, which are underfloor-heated. And power sockets in bathrooms. But no shaver points. Expensively recobbled streets designed to slow down through traffic. The concept of digos and aperos. Old men in Alsace who’ve never seen a right-hand-drive car and who point and shout. Young men in Alsace who’ve never seen a right-hand-drive car and who want to know whether the gearbox is the same way round. Motorway petrol stations where you fill up and then drive on to a pay station – which is on the left-hand side of the car, so drivers of British cars have to stop, turn off the ignition, get out and walk round to pay, thereby causing amusement among the drivers behind. Fussy German speed limits: 50 km/h for mile after mile if the road is just a little bit bumpy. European pillows: Square, empty, and lacking support. Lasagne with ham in. To the above I have just one more to add: Wanting to jump back in the car and go straight back when you get home.

Further aromas

2008-06-06T14:39:00.010Z

Jex t’ät reuk ew Plasticine. Äng.

Today the air smells of Plasticine. Weird.

Place your bets now, folks: which of the following will Gillingham smell of first: quinces, turpentine or Bolivian unicyclist's undergarments?

Marmite: te slüt-ordel / the final verdict

2008-02-03T15:51:00.001Z

Wen'k wä'n knap, Marmite (an Britaz bretsprïd mackti wrun jest) wä vondan met t'otpressaton "The Growing-Up Spread You Never Grow Out Of" [Te firastinsprïd tes ye na zë otfirast], no jüji et'st ohnvéperi tes et na jist älwér: ans lu hatsze intedédh iet. Jex tem säir »Ye liub iet ëg hatsze iet«. No me liub iet.

An pau mantes vorvor, m'aa an axwäith ew tï framkis wrun Norwég. An probofta Marmite, no e na laukimta iet (nanjolressin). E seta tes »et smez wirri«.

»Int wist wäi?« me frog.

»Welzo... et'st tolk an genereli sort wirrinas.«

Me thakje tes ven fïndiave an nüawi slogan vor Marmite.

When I were a lad, Marmite was advertised with the slogan "The Growing-Up Spread You Never Grow Out Of". These days, the makers of the strongly flavoured yeast-based comestible acknowledge that some people do Grow Out Of it, or indeed never like it, and the product is now marketed with the legend "You Either Love It Or Hate It". Allow me to fess up right here and now: I love it; a day without Marmite on toast is (almost) a day incomplete. (I am aware that many will disagree with this assessment; I have friends who regard the stuff as the Devil's earwax and who recoil from it accordingly; they are, of course, wrong, but I am far too polite to say so to their faces.)

So it was with intrigue that I noticed the launch of Limited Edition Guinness Marmite recently. Having consumed an entire jar (over a period of a month or more: I'm not a monster) and compared it back-to-back with the original, I have to conclude that it's OK, but the difference is barely perceptible; the standard product will do me just fine as a beri-beri preventive.

Returning to the subject of Marmite's canonical love-it-or-hate-it character, when a few months ago I was host to two Norwegian friends, one decided he should immerse himself in the British experience to the extent of trying Marmite on toast. Unsurprisingly, he didn't like it, but I was amused to find him trying again the following day "to see if it was any better the second time". It wasn't, apparently. To my enquiry, he replied, "It tastes bad."

"How so?" I probed.

"Well... it's just a general kind of badness."

I think we've found a new slogan for Marmite.

Anstsüdas rëuksem / Intermittently pungent

2007-09-29T13:46:00.000Z

Meü homztstät int nüd-Dorset stenk. Et werkilauk rëak, na metaforits, no intedédh. Et rëak, ax bitseltin tsüdas, ew soch tese és:

Dunga: na mol jolressin, pozirul te tstät jist böyayeban ük gaslant, und te bares anstsüdas sprïd skét ohn te lant vor mackten iet mer fruktin
Abflatpïpwerk: te stenk ew fuili watar
Tor: tïs te mant eri, et wä te stenk ew personü tor wrun t'abflatbihantlinwerkplaz
Kaul: moran tsüdas te yura eri, t'ät eri ruck stran ew kaul
TCP: an wïla vorvor wen ven anvülta böyäd te tstät, me und ans framkis jolkläzta tes te rëuk ew TCP int t'ät te däi leri wä wrun t'aa tes rin pu te kentra ete tstät
Kurri: ven ave an viaskrüsin inte tstät tes rëak oft ew kurri Dhünsdäis. Eörlauk, ven ave an
Dr Pepper: rafto te mant eri ans Norwégaz framkis hüta homz int meü, und wen ven kom za ax te homze pasts an däiräiz ven wä slüjan ük an tsnoi rëuk. Me na zicht identiféen iet inek an ew meü gestes biklérta tes iet ruck ew Dr Pepper. Und e wä drüchi: t'ät te vatsind leri ruck ew Dr Pepper. Äng

Meü wuntsliste ew rëukes vor te necht mantes inthü spik, vaniy und firtsmäi gas. Eöx te wether wïl Oktobü jist gut, ï te zestüt te thrents ew item jist sïditsënlauk.

My hometown stinks. No, really, it does.

I mean this, not in the metaphorical, disaffected-youth sense, but in the literal, olfactory sense. It seems that increasingly frequently the air in the town in which I live in north Dorset is suffused with one of a number of unpleasant and pungent odours, not all of which have a rational explanation. Specifically:

Manure: the most unsurprising of the smells we are exposed to here, as the town is surrounded by farmland and from time to time the local farmers enrich their pastures by spraying slurry all over them (and often all over the roads too)
Drains: on occasion, the evening air is polluted with the miasma of stagnant drains
Poo: in definite contrast with the previous two, there have been two occasions this month when late in the afternoon the town was blessed with an overpowering stench of human excrement, presumably due to problems at and/or wind direction from the local sewage works
Cabbages: on several occasions this summer, there was a powerful stench of brassicas
TCP: a while ago while walking around the town, I and some friends came to the conclusion that the pronounced smell of TCP on the air that day was coming from the river which passes through the town centre
Curry: we have a roundabout in the town which often smells of curry on Thursdays. Honestly, we do
Dr Pepper: earlier this month some Norwegian friends were staying with me, and as we arrived back at the house from a day trip we were assailed by a curious aroma. I was unable to pin it down, until one of my guests asserted that it smelt of Dr Pepper. And he was right: the air that evening smelt of Dr Pepper. Weird

My wish list of smells for the coming months includes bacon, vanilla, and freshly mown grass. If the weather is good in October, at least the third of those is likely.

Lati nüawes ot Capraia / (Belated) Capraia report

2007-08-05T14:27:00.000Z

Int Äprél meü framki Paul und me räizta ï Capraia, an minikï Italiaz eylant au t'auntts seria ete BBC TV-programa Rough Science (»Rühi Tsenta«) wä ohnmerki. Ven fund t'eldi prahant tes tem ütighi. T'ey'st mol tsohn, met grauti natür, und jist werkilauk tstil.

Te plazikla raumis jist mackti ot yétmelk -- härlauk!

I thought it was high time I finally posted a blog entry about our trip to Capraia a few months ago. After all, it's the home of my fourth conlang, the vestigial Cobrœxu, as well as being the location of the filming of the first series of Rough Science.

On the language front, I am told that the island has an interesting dialect, but as I'd only been learning Italian for two or three months before the trip I don't have enough expertise to report on this matter. One interesting point is that very few of the locals spoke any English (British tourists being few and far between on Capraia), but that many spoke excellent French (wealthy French tourists sailing across from nearby Corsica being the islanders' bread and butter). As a result, we sometimes found after five minutes' struggling with my basic Italian and a local person's virtually nonexistent English that we could switch to French and sort everything out within seconds.

Capraia is beautiful, in a rugged, scrub-covered, unspoilt kind of way. We spent much of our time walking the island's incredibly rough footpaths, and one particular port of call was the almost-derelict former prison building (a 2-hour hike uphill from civilisation) where Rough Science I was filmed. Paul teased me mercilessly that "You know Kate Humble's not going to be there, don't you?" I dismissed such comments as mere cruel negativity from my esteemed travelling companion, and was rewarded when we reached the building by the discovery that much evidence of the programme still remains: indeed, the remnants of Jonathan Hare's storm-smashed windmill have been affixed to the wall of one of the rooms, which was the venue for a reunion party some time ago, apparently.

Of course, this was far from the only reason for visiting Capraia, and although it was interesting and enjoyable to visit the prison (there's a sentence I never thought I'd type) it was the scenery that was the real star. The place is wonderfully quiet, and I would heartily recommend it to anyone, except if everyone else went there it would spoil it, so please don't go, you'll hate it, and there is nothing to do.

Oh, and the local ice cream is fabulous as well.

These liqueur chocolates pack quite a kick

2007-05-25T13:47:00.000Z

(Klick vor bigrunden foto)
(Click to enlarge photo)

Was tem trink int Itali / What they drink in Italy

2007-04-29T13:12:00.000Z

Pasts te »fuili« watar int Sweden, eri'st »Mukki« melk wrun Itali (vis piktür; »mucky« int Anglaz méyan »fuil«).

An fulläri bitallin böya te BJZ furtsinräiz ï Capraia fulye...

After the "dirty" water in Sweden, here comes "Mukki" milk from Italy (see advertisement in photo).

A full report on the BJZ fact-finding mission to Capraia will follow...

Tsweki abfoll-e-potst

2007-03-23T16:02:00.000Z

Among the dozens of spams that arrived in my inbox this morning, one stood out for its note of quiet and pathetic despair. I repeat it here verbatim:

Subject: anti-spammers are lamers subj regards, spammer

Weak.

Sturmes und iywoles

2007-03-06T13:59:00.000Z

Joh -- soch an sturm et wä jisternin. Me wä optwokan ax mitnin und twaned ük an älmeyti krüts. Me thochta tes te homze wä lechtentstrekan, no et wä förtunlauk tolk te rüdatamar wen et fell. Me mot plasen an bitstilat ohn t'amar.

Und pastsand, soch an prizan vorvormit: blüi wulken, ans Simpsons greümetes... und, é me wä ax t'anvülin në, me vista t'auntts iywol ete yura: an Zitron (maskul, natürlauk).

Minikï frödas.

My goodness, that was some storm we had last night. I was woken at half past midnight by an almighty crash -- I thought the house had been hit by lightning, but fortunately it was just the wheelie bin taking a tumble. I'll have to fit my bin with a silencer.

And in the aftermath, what a glorious morning. Blue skies, a few Simpsons clouds... and, on my brief external stroll, I saw the first butterfly of the year: a brimstone (a male, of course).

Small pleasures.

Strani trinkes und tsnoi languistits dédhnase

2006-11-16T17:05:00.000Z

Punärin papttsen böya trinkin, te deletüt tsüdas’ü me vegneta an lurnbuhlen böya te wuntarfull Sorbiaz langui.

Et tsën, tes te Sorbiaz wïs ’e säiren »yeü hïlad!« wen ye trink (welzo, pastsï te buhlen, wen ye trink anstes strano as biar) jist ja će widźu, wist bitaaken »Me vis iye«. Und te respont jist ja će słyšu, wist bitaaken »Me hüare iye«.

Me ♥ Sorbiaz.

Was tem trink int Sweden / What they drink in Sweden

2006-11-12T15:07:00.000Z

Ven na jolméyanta tes te blog eri simpél biliston igé te plaze tes ven haräiz, no et tsën tes et bikümne an sort randomi travelog.

Welzo, me tolk dëturnave wrun an korti besnasräiz ï Stockholm; intplaz ew wëth gaugi (ëg tsohni) fotos ete tstät, me will bipaptts temt tes tem trink int Sweden. Auntts, ye vis lavte an flass ete Swedaz mineralwatar tes wä inte konferenz-zomts inte hostel. Na tsno, ye thakje, no meü Finnaz kolegas tes axwäitha te konvenaton tallta tes »Loka«, int Finnaz, méyan »fuilth«.

(Jund et wés int Sweden an tsokolat-tablenja nimeni »Plopp«; petstsé ye thakje tes et'st kentesem 'e hlaken ax et, no: was mackta item thakjen tes 'e nimenen iet »Plopp« wä an guti jidiy?)

Welzo, trinkes: lav ime 'e optbiaden »Fläder«, an sort Swedaz eléfesanz tes smez pasts tsröblossma. Natürlauk, et'st stran, no mol ohnyinim. Me woh pringen an flass homz, no Swedaz alkohol-layas n'örta iet. Wés et an Swedazbütik int Londe ansau?

It was not our original intention that this blog simply document the various places we visit, but it does seem to be turning into some sort of random travelogue. Not to worry.

Anyway, I've just got back from a short business trip to Stockholm; I'll spare you the obligatory photo of the city, attractive though it is, and concentrate this time on a linguistic gem from the Shouldn't Have Called It That department. The hotel conference room was amply stocked with the Swedish mineral water you can see illustrated in the photo above. It seems an unremarkable product, but my Finnish colleagues present at the meeting advised me of the fact that "Loka" means "dirt" in Finnish.

On a similar theme, Sweden is also the home of the chocolate bar named "Plopp". You may think it puerile to laugh at such things, but I can't help wondering what made them think it would be a good idea to call it that.

Returning to the subject of drinks, I will just add at this point a hearty recommendation for "Fläder", a type of Swedish akvavit flavoured with elderflower. Strong, of course, but very pleasant. I would have brought a bottle home, but the stringent Swedish licensing laws prevent the purchase of alcohol in duty-free shops unless you're leaving the EU. Is there a Swedish Shop in London anywhere?

Norwég, hefts 2006: Trondheim

2006-10-26T13:08:00.000Z

Lu frég oft ime, »Norwég? Kalt, jist et na?« Sür, et'st kalt inte vante, no et'st ansi wärmi inte tsumme. Wen m'ïkom int Trondheim 30ts Äugüt et wä 21 gradas und te Trondheimazes wä oter inte sonnen und mast raumis. Rafti Septembü int Bodø, und et wä böya 20 gradas. Ven vista te nüdrightes, no meü kamera'st ansi selerë, zo intplaz eri'st an piktür ete bus int Trondheim nech te Nid-Aa, inte la-tsumme sonnen. Oh jey.

I'm often asked by otherwise intelligent people, "Norway? Isn't it cold?" The answer, of course, is that it's cold in the winter and mild in the summer. This year, temperatures there were high enough to qualify as "warm". Indeed, when I arrived in Trondheim at the very end of August it was a balmy 21° C and all the inhabitants were sunning themselves and getting outside some serious ice cream. When September arrived I was in arctic Bodø, and it was still about 20° C. I would be posting a picture of the northern lights here, but my camera was too feeble to record the display; instead, here's a nice photo of the old warehouses by the River Nid in Trondheim, in the late-summer sun.

»Raamar« TS.E-sü nimenes

2006-09-23T12:21:00.000Z

An vor te programates, et.

Wen me wä int Norwég int Septembü 2005, me fotografta te raamar TS.E-s eri pozirts temtü nimenes. »C!« klenk lauk »Se!«, wist int Norwégaz méyan »Visyë!« »D!« jist te klér necht stap.

Oberbimerk e.y.w. tes »D!« optchand strak: »Veln NOK 22« (by. €3). Dorogi...

Und zo, wényë meü jolressin wen me vista t'TS.E eri int te Färeys, nimeni »Ð«. Maltzas... te Färeyaz stef Ð jist tstil.

When I was in Norway last year, I snapped these celebrity-gossip magazines (top photo) because my warped hacker sense of humour thought their titles were amusing, in combination. ("C!" is pronounced the same as the Norwegian word for "Look!" I don't get why the other magazine was called "D!" -- "It!" doesn't have quite the same ring to it.)

Imagine my surprise when a few months later I saw this slightly more provocative magazine (lower photo) in the Faroe Islands, called "Ð". Such a cool name for a magazine, especially as the Faroese letter Ð is silent.

Räiz ï Islant

2006-09-20T20:15:00.000Z

Za int Febrar, ven alta ï Islant ohn vakansa wïl vour däis. Islant jist an tsohni un géologits aktivi lant, fulli ew barges, vulkaanes und tsrati bröntes. T’Islantazes paptts an tsohni und elddhomlauk Germanits langui, tes jist bi és maltzas és Jameld. Nanförtunlauk iğé int Islant jist äldorogi.

Bitallin wrun te Färeys / Faroes trip

2006-09-09T14:58:00.000Z

Te Färeys: na veln wilddiurnas. Bi, no na äl.

"Hmm," said my travelling companion Paul thoughtfully as our plane came into land at Vágar airport, "tundra."

Looking out of the window at the partly fog-shrouded wilderness that was our first glimpse of the Faroe Islands, I had to agree to some extent.

It turns out, though, that the Faroes have much more to offer the visitor than windblown emptiness. There are sheep to crash into, for instance, and wherever you go you will be accompanied by the peeping of oystercatchers, even up a mountain pass. And when the sun comes out, the islands are green jewels. Their beauty is, admittedly, mainly of the stark, brutal kind, and thus not to all tastes, but there is no doubt this is a special place.

As you can see from the photo, the Faroese are very thoughtful when it comes to collecting leftover toddler food.

Krüswäut

2005-12-10T16:05:00.000Z

OBER
1. Wäut ï frége (7)
5. Quadretwort ew temzix (4)
6. Na t’isem (3)
7. Üvretin (3)
9. Smerk (3)
10. Bivass nates (3)
11. Örats (4)
12. Nansundari ïstar (7)

TINT
1. Sensiuch köiz ete Jameltses (7)
2. Person tes untereskrïre an obertstemats (5)
3. Organ (4)
4. Thun tus (7)
8. Lant tes ave granze met Déttsi und Tswizerlant (5)
9. Taan (4)

Clues in English (answers are the same as for the Jameld clues, and are all in Jameld)
ACROSS
1. Answer to question (7)
5. Square root of 16 (4)
6. Not the same (3)
7. Opening (3)
9. Chaos (3)
10. Without content (3)
11. Tolerance (4)
12. Unity (7)

DOWN
1. Mad Jameldic king (7)
2. Party (5)
3. Kidney (3)
4. Wires (7)
8. Alpine country (5)
9. Wrath (4)

Minor frustration

2005-11-12T16:09:00.000Z

Ans däis, ike wulne an mandalkrasson -- tolk iet -- no et wés nan.

Some days, you can't get a croissant aux amandes for love nor money. Well, I tried money, and that didn't work. I doubt that love would have made much difference on this occasion.

Bihalats wrun Brézi (Brittany trip)

2005-11-02T15:42:00.000Z

Me zaräizta wrun Brézi delet Sonnendäi, pasts an mol ohnyinim wökt int te konträ eri ew Franki. Hipünktes wä te küt ew rösi granit, te kohkes (mm, kouign amann), te krempes und te biar (met wër-extrakt!). Et wä intéretsin jund 'e visen te tïlanguikli tsönes, int Frankaz und Brézonez (vis te piktür, lavte).

Our fact-finding trip to Brittany was highly instructive, not to say relaxing. The pink granite coastline was beautiful, the cakes were great (I'm missing the kouign amann already), as were the crêpes, and the local beers (especially the one which contains seaweed extract) were very flavourful. Interesting to see all the bilingual road signage, too (see photo, above), in French and Breton. I noticed in the coverage of the recent Rallye Corsica that the signs are bilingual there too, although the local activists tend to paint over the French bit, leaving only the Corsican legend visible. Perhaps we should campaign to have the signs in Zuraaland (which is, after all, in France) bilingual in French and Jameld...

On the subject of the crêpes in Brittany, it has come to my attention that there is a Jameldic link, thanks to the Breton community in Haguenau (Haaghane-Zudbörg), just south of Zuraaland, which introduced crêpe-making to the area (hence the Jameld word for crêpe, kremp, from the Breton krampouezh).

Bitallin ete Norwég räiz

2005-10-05T15:38:00.000Z

Welzo, et eri wä te vits tes grotha ime int Norwég, inte mikï throp nimeni Bjordal int Sogn og Fjordane konträ. Et wä an sort mirakel tes et na régenta vor te most. Pasts vour däis int soch ethemvéperin lant, me kom homz int an mol firts und bikalmi yamunthïstar.

This is a photo of Bjordal in Norway, where I was in late September. As you can see, the weather was fine and the scenery breathtaking. The company was pretty good, too :-)

Missa ot Norwég

2005-09-23T15:14:00.000Z

Hïlad... et wés na nüawes ot Norwég... no te sonnen tsand :-)

Familnimen

2005-09-20T11:52:00.000Z

Hï Tomas, jolkläzta ye -- jist et »Hlë« ëg »te Hélaz«? :-)

Nan-IJD fëeratses

2005-09-19T09:02:00.000Z

Samüdäi, ans Jameld-toldlauk persones olt ï Hengistbörgkaap (Hengistbury Head) nëir Christzerek int Dorset, vor an nan-IJD fëerats. Intedédh, et wä na werkilauk fëerats, no an mol bikalmin pastsmit nech te strond. Ven brinta sosikes und köta snïg et wä tsüdrist 'e fenjen te faar za ï t'autos.

Jüji, me vorparid vor te räiz ï Norwég...

Frödsem Yurafesta

2005-09-14T11:49:00.000Z

Jameld jist 23 jex. Pufrodyën!

T’auntts Jameld blog

2005-09-14T11:16:00.000Z

Me biklére erimet oquo mol ernsi blog üvret.