By November the weather turns and jacket potatoes make sense again — simple, filling, and familiar. The word ‘potato’ has travelled as far as the crop itself, from Taíno ‘batata’ and Quechua ‘papa’ to Spanish ‘patata’ and English. Across Europe, languages called it an ‘earth apple’ or linked it to a truffle.

The English ‘parsnip’ comes from Latin ‘pastinaca’, a word for both parsnip and carrot, and for the fork used to dig them up. Most European languages kept this Latin root, though Spanish ‘chirivía’ took a different path through Arabic. A vegetable named for the tool that unearthed it.

The word ‘poppy’ traces back to Latin ‘papaver’, borrowed into Old English as ‘popiġ’. Across Europe it left a trail of relatives—French ‘pavot’, Italian ‘papavero’, Welsh ‘pabi’, German ‘Mohn’. Once a symbol of sleep and death, it later became a flower of remembrance.

A word as soft as the fruit it names. Pear came into English through Old English pere and Latin pirum, a name that may go back to an ancient root meaning ‘to crush’. The same story ripened across Europe in poire, pera, and Birne.

A word that once meant a fire of bones now names the blaze of celebration. ‘Bonfire’ began as ‘banefyre’ in Old English and was later re-heard through French ‘bon’ as a ‘good fire’. Its history traces a shift from ritual pyres to communal joy.

The word ‘November’ comes from Latin ‘novem’, meaning ‘nine’. Once the ninth month of the Roman year, it later shifted to eleventh place. Older names such as Old English ‘Blōtmōnaþ’ and Irish ‘Samhain’ reveal how northern Europe marked the season through ritual, sacrifice, and the fading of light. The photo shows a chilly November day in Southsea.

Halloween’ began as ‘All Hallows’ Even’, the night before All Saints’ Day. Its roots lie in Old English ‘hālig’ meaning holy, and in the wider Hallowtide of saints and souls. Across Europe, related words tell the same story — ‘Toussaint’, ‘Allerheiligen’, ‘Oíche Shamhna’ — each marking the eve that once joined harvest, remembrance, and holiness.

‘Twilight’ joins ‘two’ and ‘light’ to name the half-light between day and night. From Old English twi-lyht, it shares roots with ‘twin’ and ‘lucid’. Its Romance cousin crepusculum gave French ‘crépuscule’ and Italian ‘crepuscolo’. Across Europe, twilight glows through words of dimness, doubling, and fading.

‘Frost’ has hardly changed in a thousand years. From Old English ‘forst’ to modern English, the same word has marked cold mornings and white fields. Its root goes back to Proto-Germanic frustaz and the older Indo-European preus- — a word for freezing, burning, shivering. Across Europe, its relatives still bite the air: German ‘Frost’, Dutch ‘vorst’, Swedish ‘frost’, French ‘gelée’, Irish ‘sioc’.

A word for the lightest rain, drizzle comes from Middle English drislen, built from Old English drēosan, ‘to fall’. Germanic cousins include Niesel and motregen, while the Romance languages turn to bruine and llovizna. Across Europe, the sense is shared — soft rain that seems to hover before it lands.

The word ‘ember’ reaches back to Old English ‘ǣmyrge’ and Old Norse ‘eimyrja’, meaning a live coal. Across Europe, its cousins glow in ‘braise’, ‘brasa’, and ‘glød’. The image of heat that lingers—fragile, steady—still burns in language and memory.

Taken near Vile on Denmark’s Limfjord, this post explores the word ‘dusk’—its deep Germanic roots, its kin in other European languages, and the Danish tusmørke, meaning ‘between dark’.

The word ‘hearth’ comes from Old English ‘heorð’, once meaning both fire and home. From Latin ‘focus’ to Greek ‘Hestia’, it has always marked the meeting of warmth and belonging.

A spiny hedge, a bitter fruit, and a name that’s older than plum, pear, or cherry. This word card explores the etymology and history of sloe — from PIE roots and Germanic cousins to Neolithic dye pots and 19th-century gin bottles.

I thought lantern might be Germanic, but it isn’t: its roots lie in Greek lampter ‘torch’, carried through Latin and French into English. As nights draw in this October, I picture scenes before electricity — a lantern taken out to feed cattle, or carried across the prairie.

Explore the etymology of rose hip: ‘rose’ from Latin via Greek and Persian, ‘hip’ from Old English hēope. A compound of borrowed bloom and native fruit, shaped by hedgerow lore, wartime syrup, and European cousins.

‘Mist’ has kept its form and meaning for over a thousand years. From the Proto-Indo-European root meigh- ‘to sprinkle’, it connects to Old Norse ‘mistr’ and to ‘mistletoe’—once ‘misteltān’, the ‘dung twig’. English kept the weather sense while its relatives shifted toward drizzle, haze, or muck

October still remembers being the eighth month. From Latin ‘octo’, Old English ‘Winterfylleth’, and Norse ‘Gormánuðr’, the name carries echoes of numbers, moons, and slaughter.

Crab apples grow at the edges of things. This post traces the word’s tangled roots — from Old English and Norse to hedgerow jelly, wassailing, and 30+ languages that name this small, sour fruit.

The word ‘hawthorn’ began as a hedge-thorn in Old English, but came to mean both a thorny tree and the berry it bears. Across Europe, the name reflects thorns, blossom, and hedgerows.