It’s nearing the spring equinox, and Ryan Snoddon, CBC’s meteorologist in Newfoundland and Labrador, calls for a change in the weather. “Let’s hope this is Sheila,” he says during an early morning webcast. He’s referencing St. Patrick’s wife, who, according to local folklore, is responsible for administering the final brush of snow across the land before spring. It might be an overly optimistic forecast in this storm-battered corner of the North Atlantic, but Snoddon can be certain of one thing: his viewers, who are familiar with the language of Newfoundland, will understand this piece of regional lingo. It’s one of thousands of terms employed only in Canada’s easternmost province, where language and landscape are deeply intertwined.
The cache of words used to describe Newfoundland and Labrador’s natural environment is as vast and wide as the province itself—and, like most of life lived along the coast, weather dependent.
Known as “the Rock” for its jagged coastlines and impenetrable soil, the island of Newfoundland and its mainland counterpart, Labrador, were the first North American stops for European peoples, whose histories and vocabularies intertwined in this remote new world. Meanwhile, the Indigenous people—Inuit and Innu in Labrador, Mi’kmaq in west and central Newfoundland—had their own rich languages from which the newcomers occasionally borrowed.
European settlement began with the arrival of explorer John Cabot, who reached the island of Newfoundland in 1497 and claimed it for England. Cabot returned home with astonishing tales about the abundance of cod. The waters were so thick with fish, the mythology goes, that you could walk across their backs to the shore.
Drawn by the aquatic bounty, the Basques, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Irish and West Country English followed, fishing the waters that surrounded the island and Labrador. What were initially seasonal fishing stations transformed into permanent communities—called outports—by the late 18th century. The tiny settlements ringed the shoreline and were connected only by the sea.
The language of Newfoundland bloomed in this isolation, inspired by the wild environment and influenced by Old World cultures. Words arrived from everywhere. Spanish fishermen brought “bacalao,” their name for cod. “Dwy,” which described a short, sudden storm, came from West Country English. A local trickster was called a “sleveen,” an expression adopted from Irish. Newcomers also picked up on terms already tied to the place, like “tabanask,” an Innu-aimun term for toboggan, and “sina,” the Inuktitut word used to describe the edge of a floating ice field.
But sina wasn’t enough; there were so many types of ice and snow in the coastal waters. Naming these unfamiliar formations—the soft ice close to shore (“lolly”), or a mass of ice and snow in seawater (“slob”)—was paramount to fishermen’s survival. (Smaller boats could navigate through lolly ice, but slob ice could be impassable for even the larger sealing vessels, trapping them offshore.)
Because of this, the language of Newfoundland was often occupational and rooted in the culture of the fishery. For a weather forecaster like Snoddon, language is similarly tied to vocation. He regularly peppers his forecasts with local terms. Overcast, damp and foggy days are “mauzy,” and he constantly calls for “RDF,” the regional acronym used for rain, drizzle and fog. So far, he hasn’t managed to use “glitter”—the term for freezing rain that builds up as ice on branches and wires—or “fairy squall,” a sudden gust of wind that seems to come from nowhere, as if conjured by supernatural forces. As a transplant from Ontario, Snoddon carefully learns the vernacular, so he can integrate it in a way that seems natural.
“You want to get your street cred before you try to use those kinds of words,” he says. “You don’t want to make it just seem like you’re saying them for the sake of saying them.”
Why Newfoundland and Labrador has its own lexicon, and why so many of the province’s words relate to the coastal environment, is both obvious and complex, says folklorist Philip Hiscock of Memorial University.
The further people were from the authoritative culture of St. John’s, the province’s capital—and, by extension, the further they were from Britain and Canada—the less it mattered, so dialect varies from region to region. “Words that are important to you are those that reflect right here and now,” says Hiscock. “So they’re going to change, and they’re going to be imbued with a sense of locality.”
Another factor in the development of these distinct dialects is Newfoundland and Labrador’s strong oral tradition. Storytelling flourished in the isolated outports, where talk and song were the primary forms of entertainment. Tales were often born of hardship, adversity and perseverance in the face of poverty. These narratives were inspired by a world that was both harsh and beautiful, good and bad—the dichotomy at the heart of all great tales. Then, as now, stories were told with attention to language. Perhaps there simply weren’t enough words to describe the erratic weather and rock-lashed land. Maybe the language of Newfoundland was not simply the result of limitation—the isolation of the outports—but a response to the limitlessness of the natural and social landscape.
Want to explore more of the east coast? Check out 8 Romantic Escapes in Newfoundland.