Devon Dialect: 25 Local Words and Phrases Explained

Devon has a way of answering a question without quite answering it. Ask a farmer near South Molton when he'll mend the gate and he'll say "dreckly". It sounds like directly — soon, imminent, practically now. It isn't. Two days later the gate is still lying in the hedge, and as far as he's concerned he hasn't broken a promise.

That one word explains more about local speech than any glossary. Devon dialect isn't a performance for visitors, and it isn't a museum piece. It's the ordinary language of market towns, moorland farms and harbours, mixed now with the accents of everyone who moved here for the coast. Most of it is shared across the West Country, and spellings wander — you'll find bain't, baint and bayn't within twenty miles of each other.

Here are twenty-five words and phrases, and how they're actually used.

The everyday standbys

Proper — the all-purpose intensifier, doing the work of "very" elsewhere. That pasty was proper good. She's proper nice, her. You'll hear it from builders and teenagers alike, so don't file it under old-fashioned. Put it before the adjective and don't stress it.

Proper job — approval, and often a whole sentence. Someone passes their driving test; you say "proper job". It also describes work done well: a neatly rebuilt wall is a proper job.

Gert — big, usually with affection attached. A gert slab of cake. A gert dog asleep across the doorway. Call a tall friend "you gert thing" and it's a compliment, roughly.

Lush — lovely, delicious, good-looking. A cream tea can be lush. So can the view from Haytor on a clear morning. Meant sincerely, so don't deliver it with a smirk.

Maid — a girl, a daughter, a young woman. Her's a lovely maid. Warm rather than condescending, and still in daily use.

Babby — a baby, and by extension any adult being soft about something. Don't be a babby means stop whingeing and get on with it.

Time, weather and the Devon sense of urgency

Dreckly — in a while, when it suits, at some point that isn't now. The range runs from "within the hour" to "before Christmas", and tone decides which. Not rudeness — a refusal to be hurried.

Dimpsy — the last of the light, that grey half hour before dark. It'll be dimpsy by the time we've finished. Useful on Dartmoor in November.

Mizzle — mist and drizzle at once, the fine wet that doesn't look like rain and soaks you anyway. Not a downpour, not a shower. A Devon speciality.

Rawky — cold, damp and grey in a way that gets into your bones. Rawky old morning. Almost always said about weather, rarely about people.

'Tis (or tiz) — it is. 'Tis a bit rawky today. Nobody is being theatrical; it's simply the shortened form.

Food, drink and footwear

Nammet — a snack between meals, and the occasion for eating it. Nammet time falls around eleven and again mid-afternoon: a pasty, a hunk of cheese, a slice of fruit cake.

Cob — a crusty bread roll. Ask for a bacon cob in a cafe and no one will blink.

Scrumpy — rough farmhouse cider: cloudy, dry, and stronger than it tastes. A half is a sensible first order.

Daps — plimsolls, gym shoes, the flat canvas sort. School PE lessons still run on them.

Grammar that does the heavy lifting

Some of the most distinctive Devon speech isn't words at all but the small grammatical moves that trip up newcomers.

Bain't — am not, isn't, aren't. I bain't going out in that. Bain't my problem. Perfectly serious, perfectly normal.

Tidden — it isn't. Tidden no use. Double negatives are standard here and always have been; nobody is making an error.

'Ee — you, or he, or him, depending on the sentence. Where's 'ee to? can mean "where are you?" or "where is he?" Context settles it, and locals rarely notice the ambiguity.

Us — frequently means me. Give us the shovel. It also stands in for we: Us'll be along dreckly.

Creatures, fields and mud

Dumbledore — a bumblebee. Older speakers use it, and the spelling shifts: dumbledore, drumbledrone, dumble-drane. Say it aloud and you'll hear why it survived.

Yaffle — the green woodpecker, named for its laughing call. Hear a chuckle coming out of a hedge and that's your bird.

Claggy — sticky and heavy underfoot. Claggy lanes in February, claggy red mud at the field gate.

Furze — gorse: yellow from early spring, coconut-scented, and unforgiving if you walk through it in shorts.

People and visitors

Janner — someone from Plymouth. Plymouth people use it about themselves with some pride; from anyone else it can carry an edge, so take your cue from the room.

Grockle — a holidaymaker. In an August seaside town you'll hear it often, usually with more fondness than the dictionary suggests. Related, and more Cornish, is emmet, which means both a visitor and an ant.

Using it without sounding like a grockle

You don't need to imitate anyone. Dialect goes wrong when it's performed, and most people here mix it freely with standard English: a grandmother who says "bain't" may have a grandson who says "isn't", and both are entirely Devon.

• Listen for the rhythm before the vocabulary. How a sentence ends matters more than which words are in it.
• Never use a local word as a punchline. A put-on accent is the quickest way to be treated as an outsider.
• Ask what something means. People are usually pleased to explain, especially if you've just been called a grockle and want to know whether to mind. You don't.
• Don't correct anyone. "Tidden no use" isn't broken English; it's a different rulebook.
• Be careful with dreckly in practical matters. Say it yourself all you like, but when a tradesman says it, agree a day and a time of day before you part company.

Learn half a dozen of these and you'll follow far more of what's said to you in a pub, a car park or a cattle market. Use two or three lightly and you'll be understood. The words are an invitation, not a test.

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