New Brunswick has had its fair share of strange place names — and the stories behind them are just as quirky.
The Cases of the Missing K's
Both Fredericton and Moncton are supposed to be spelled with the letter "K."
Their founding documents make it very clear that they are supposed to be named "Frederick's Town" and "Monckton," respectively.
The story of how they lost their K's isn't very exciting. Soon after they were founded, both cities lost their K's to routine spelling errors made by civil servants. The typos have never been corrected.
The really weird part is that it happened twice!
Fredericton's Other Name
There were two names in contention for New Brunswick's capital, and "Frederick's Town" was actually the loser.
Documents confirm that, at least briefly, the capital had the absolutely tragic name of "Osnaburg," in honour of one of that same Prince Frederick's titles, Bishop of Osnaburg.
If the name had stuck, Frederictonians would today be called "Osnaburgers!"
The Other Names for Saint John
Before it became Saint John, the Port City was named Parrtown. The name was never very popular, in large part because Governor Parr had personally requested the city be named after himself, which the locals thought was rather gauche.
The 1784 Loyalists thought that was so gauche, in fact, that Parrtowners refused to call it Parrtown at all. Magistrate Edward Winslow commented in a letter: "The rude inhabitants of this new country have not yet acquired a sufficient degree of gallantry to indulge [Parr's] vanity."
Letters arrived in Halifax with pointed addresses — or lack thereof — reading things like: "the two towns now settling the Harbour — names unknown." As Parrtown neared its one-year birthday, mailing addresses seemed to be converging on a new name: "Town On St. John's Harbour."
A popular movement to change the name arose and settled around "Carleton." This was not, however, honouring New Brunswick's first governor, Thomas Carleton.
The name was meant to honour the Governor of Quebec: Sir Guy Carleton. Not only had he been one of the few competent British leaders during the American Revolution, but Sir Guy was immensely popular with local Black Loyalists — he had personally intervened to help an estimated 3,000 of them escape after the war ended.
Black Loyalists were already calling their part of the harbour Carleton in Sir Guy's honour.
Across the water, Parrtowners liked the idea. They too wanted to honour Sir Guy. In what is surely the most bizarre naming convention ever proposed in the province's history, their movement landed on renaming their side of the harbour "Guy."
One side would be called Guy.
The other, Carleton.
Together, the city would be named "Guy Carleton."
"We can only be thankful wiser counsels prevailed," snarked historian W.O. Raymond.
In the end, they simply named the city after the harbour.
Musquash’s rats, and other names
In 1832, Moses Perley received a grant for 32,000 acres in Musquash — and promptly went on one of New Brunswick’s most entertaining naming sprees. He rechristened the whole region Inglewood Manor and gave its lakes names straight out of folklore: Robin Hood, Friar Tuck, Sherwood, and Little John.
Perley’s inspiration wasn’t random.
He was working his way through the works of then-ultra-popular author Sir Walter Scott. That also explains why the village of Musquash itself was, for a time, called Ivanhoe — after Scott’s best-known romance novel.
As for “Musquash,” the actual name comes from the English mangling of the French name for the area: Îles aux Rats Musquez — literally, “Muskrat Islands.”
Arcadia Lost (and Acadia Found)
Back in 1524, explorer Janus Verrazzano spotted the Maritimes and was so impressed he bestowed it with the name Arcadia, which means paradise in Greek.
Then along came Samuel de Champlain, who, while a brilliant explorer, was only 23 years old and had no formal education.
He made many spelling mistakes, including seeming to have accidentally dropped the “R,” leaving us with Acadia instead.
How Grand is Grand Lake?
You’d be forgiven for thinking Grand Lake had a French name — but it’s probably English. The French had already named a different Grand Lake along the Maine border.
British maps from 1798 show that New Brunswick’s largest lake was briefly (and bizarrely) named Long Pond.
It appears to have gotten its current name from disgruntled locals who thought that the new name was, to be perfectly blunt, dumb.
In Wolastoqey, it’s called Kchee-quis-pem. In Peskotomuhkati, Kaouakousaki.
The Ballad of the Pirate Named Jack Tar
A pirate calling himself “Jack Tar” was among the earliest settlers of Seal Cove, Grand Manan, many of whom had some rather colourful reputations!
After arriving in Seal Cove around 1800, he worked for the respectable Dr. Faxon — but once he started drinking, he would loudly boast of his pirate past.
“It was the boast of Jack Tar at Seal Cove when on a spree that he fought under Paul Jones on board the ‘Bon Homme Richard’ in the bloody engagement with the British frigate ‘Serapis,’” wrote J. G. Lorimer in his 1876 book History of the Islands and Islets of the Bay of Fundy.
Dr. Faxon had a reputation for being an exceptionally patient man. He put up with Jack Tar’s drunken boasts of having been a pirate, even when, as the alcohol took hold, Jack’s voice got louder and his tales of piracy got bloodier.
What Dr. Faxon couldn’t handle, though, was Jack Tar’s singing.
One particularly dark and stormy night, Jack Tar broke into his old pirate song about the pirate Captain Paul Jones fighting the King of England.
Dr. Faxon let this one slide.
But then Jack Tar broke into a pro-American song from the Revolution.
That was too much for Dr. Faxon! He, like most of the white residents of Grand Manan at the time, had fled the States after the Revolution.
The furious doctor kicked Jack Tar out of his house into the storm.
“Tar attempted to get to James Parker’s about a mile distant, but in the storm and the darkness, and in liquor as well, fell over a cliff!” wrote Lorimer.
The cove where Tar was killed is called Jack Tar’s Cove to this day…
Lost in Pronunciation
Settlers often tried but struggled to pronounce Indigenous place names. Over time, mangled pronunciations sometimes became brand new words.
Bouctouche's name is a linguistic ghost of the Mi’kmaq word Chebooktoosk, which means “little big harbour.” Like so many names in New Brunswick, it had been accidentally bent and reshaped over time, mispronounced until it settled into something else entirely.
The name Nashwaak likely came about the same way. In Wolastoqiyik, the river is called Nah-wij’-e-wauk, meaning “halfway place.”
There used to be two Nashwaak Rivers in New Brunswick. That was confusing, so one was renamed to honour a colonial governor, becoming the Hammond River.
The Lost German
The first settler in what is now Cape Tormentine was said to have been a German, so locals began calling the place Cape German.
Over time, the name morphed. Historian William F. Ganong wrote that it “gradually became corrupted into its present form: Cape Jourimain,” adding that this was “probably in error.”
The mistake didn’t stop there. In 1859, a mapmaker misplaced the name “Cape Jourmain” further down the coast, and the spot kept it.
Meanwhile, the real original name in the language of the Wolastoqiyik was Wuk-taa'-mook.
The Award For Most Mangled Pronunciation Goes To…
Quaco, located on the Bay of Fundy, is the result of the English struggling to pronounce a French name that struggled to pronounce a Mi'kmaq name.
Mi'kmaq called the place "Goolwaakw" (pronounced Gool-wah-gah’-kwek), which means “haunt of the hooded seal.”
French generally didn't handle "L" or "R" sounds very well. After years of struggling with the Mi'kmaq name, it became “Ariquaki.”
The British weren't any better at pronouncing that French name than the French had been at pronouncing the Mi'kmaq name.
Over the years, it transformed into "Quaco" which bears very little resemblance to the word it is based on!
No Swans in Swan Creek
Swan Creek, located outside of Gagetown, has a name you might think refers to elegant birds.
In fact, a curious later myth arose that New Brunswick’s first ever governor, Guy Carleton, brought a bunch of swans with him when he and the Loyalists came up as refugees after the American Revolution. Some of his pet swans escaped and moved to the river, hence its name.
That story was made up after the fact — and if you think about it, it really doesn’t even make much sense!
In reality, Swan Creek’s name comes from the Wolastoqiyik word See-wan-kik’, meaning “cranberry bog.”
No Taxis In Taxis River
Taxis River is missing an apostrophe. It should be called Tax's River, which is what everyone called it in honour of a reclusive Indigenous man who once called it home.
Over the centuries since Tax passed away, he was forgotten, but the river he loved still bears his name … sort of.
Close Enough
Other names are at least somewhat close to their Indigenous roots.
Memramcook, for instance, is derived from the Mi’kmaq name Amlamkook.
Chamcook — now part of the St. Andrews municipality — comes from the Peskotomuhkati word K-tchum-cook, which is honestly pretty close.
And Then There’s Oromocto
The name Oromocto is believed to come from the Wolastoqiyik name Wel-a-mook’took, meaning “beautiful river.”
Interestingly, historian William F. Ganong noted a difference between this and the Wolastoqey name for the Saint John River, Woolastook, which means “good river” — as in good for travel purposes, not simply just good-looking.
Neguac? Neguac-ish?
Some place names got so lost in translation that they might be referring to the wrong place.
Neguac may be derived from a Mi’kmaq word, but the Mi’kmaq name for nearby Neguac Island is Pee-memp-kee’ok, which doesn’t sound even remotely close.
However, nearby Hay Island has the Mi’kmaq name Anegaywayok, which does sound suspiciously like Neguac.
Whirlpool of Words
Language itself evolves, and sometimes words get mispronounced so often that the mistake becomes permanent.
Take Old Sow, the second-largest whirlpool in the world, located off Deer Island. Its name likely comes from the Old English word sough, meaning a sucking sound. It was supposed to be pronounced “suff” — but people just said it like it’s written.
Quack Etymology
Tantramar Marsh is probably a corruption of the French word tintamarre, meaning “racket” or “thundering noise.” The place earned the name thanks to the deafening flocks of geese and ducks that once lived there.
Over the centuries, the name morphed — from Tantemar in 1749 to Tantramar by 1841.
Before the French arrived, the Mi’kmaq called it Ad-a-maak’.
Tracadie Through the Ages
Tracadie offers one of the clearest examples of a name evolving over time.
Originally Tulakadik in Mi’kmaq (meaning “camping ground”), it was recorded as Tregate by Champlain in 1604, Tigate by Dudley in 1647, and finally Tracady and Tracadie in the 1680s.
The first European settlers were two Acadian hunters, Julien and René Robert, who stumbled across the spot in 1784. They were almost immediately joined — by sheer coincidence — by two disbanded English soldiers, Ferguson and McLaughlan.
Differences were quickly set aside in favour of good fishing and forestry. The town became a melting pot of New Brunswickers from different backgrounds — mostly getting along just fine.
The Curious Case of St. Stephen
St. Stephen’s name is a bit of a mystery.
Historian William F. Ganong believed it was originally called Morristown in 1784, possibly named for local MLA Charles Morris.
That town was built on top of a former New Englander settlement, which was likely called Scoodic, which was the Peskotomuhkati name for the St. Croix River.
That town, in turn, had been built atop a former French one called Chartier.
So who was Saint Stephen?
The logical theory is that it refers to the Christian martyr and patron saint of stonemasons. But master historian Dr. J.C. Webster had a different theory: the town was named for a land surveyor named Stephen — a man whose saintliness was apparently questionable at best.
Steve the surveyor was no saint.
St. Stephen’s name was an ironic inside joke that stuck.
The Dancing Dungarvon
And finally, the crown jewel of weird name stories: the Dungarvon River.
Its Mi’kmaq name is Meg-wa-guelk’. The current name, legend has it, came during a massive logjam in the 1820s.
As the logs piled up, lumberjacks clambered on top and began stomping around to shake them loose. It quickly turned into a raucous dance party.
One particularly enthusiastic Irishman shouted, “We’ll make Dungarvan shake!”
No one’s sure whether the Irish Dungarvan River shook, but the name sure stuck here in New Brunswick.
