Another rave about the joys of words by Sandra Horn
I don’t know if there’s a word for the condition of being just a teeny bit obsessed with place names, but if there is, I’ve got it. It might have started somewhere around Oxford, when I first saw the sign reading Milton Chilton Didcot Wantage. Lovely, yumpty-tumpty rhythm. It makes me smile and shout it out every time we drive past it. In case you’re wondering, I have not been ejected from the car. Yet. In contrast, in Laurie Lee country, there’s a sign at the end of a gloomy lane through overhanging trees which reads Cold Slad Only. It’s enough to strike chill into the stoutest heart. Who’d ever want to go there? Up towards Basingstoke from here there is Nately Scours. It’s what a very rafeened lady might whisper to her doctor about an embarrassing nocturnal problem. Somerset is a particularly rich source of these delights: Bishop’s Hull Within, Bishop’s Hull Without (what?); Nempnett Thrubwell (can one thrub badly?); Wumbrock (badgers?); Hammoon (wolves?); Ryme Intrinsica ...