#italian-scots

[scotianostra]

November 26th 1908 saw the birth of Charles Carmine Forte in Casalattico, Italy

This has a wee connection with my home town, Loanhead, it was Baron Forte, as he was to become, worked in his relative,  Alfonso Forte, Italian cafe, from a young age after emigrating from Italy.

His father’s distant cousin Pacifico Forte had moved to Scotland and according to family legend, this cousin met a Scotsman who was believed to be a grocer. However, he did not own just one grocer’s shop but many.

The family always believed that this was Sir Thomas Lipton. He said to Pacifico ‘if you ever come to Scotland come to see me and I will help you.’ but truth be told we will never know if it was Lipton.

He opened up what was known as a hole in the wall shop in Kincardine in Fife. There he sold chocolate, lemonade and cigarettes.

He went on to open an ice cream shop in Dundee and with the business expanding, he persuaded some of the family to move to Scotland. In 1911 Rocco Forte arrived in the country.

During that year Mr Forte found a job in a small shop in Loanhead near Edinburgh. Three years later he wrote home and asked his wife and their family to join him, and they arrived at Waverley Station in 1913.

They then left Edinburgh bound for Alloa. Here Forte established the Savoy Cafe.

It sold lemonade and coffee and soon became popular with locals. It was situated on Mill Street and could seat between 50 and 60 people.

As time went on, they employed two or three assistants to serve ice cream, cakes and sandwiches.

Charles was beginning to speak English but with a Scottish accent. He attended Alloa Academy but was teased by the other boys, which is what happens in schools.  At the time, the nickname for an Italian was tally wally and they used to taunt him with this.

Soon though he was accepted because he was friendly and good at sport.

While there he wrote an essay for his teacher Miss Hunter. She showed it to the headmaster as she was so taken with his grasp of English.

ONE of the things Charles Forte remembered about The Great War was the arrival of the Black Watch in Alloa.

He also recalled seeing Lloyd George standing on a box in a doorway, speaking to the crowd of around 100 people.

When Forte was 12, he attended Saint Joseph's College in Dumfries. While there he got into fights nearly every day, and he loathed the place.

After a week he wrote to his father saying: ‘unless you come and fetch me, I am going to run away’. A few days later he arrived at the school and took him home.

He was then enrolled in one of Italy's most prestigious schools in Rome and during his time there, he only returned to Alloa for the summer holidays.

When he was 17, Forte decided to follow in his father's footsteps. Rocco arranged for him to work in a cafe in Weston-Super-Mare in Somerset.

It had been formed in partnership with two cousins and was one of the first of a string of cafes and ice cream parlours which members of the family opened all along the English coastline.

The caveat was that he was to remain in Scotland for six months to study book-keeping and accountancy.

When he was 26, he opened his first milk bar in Regent Street London. From there his business went from strength to strength, opening many more cafes.

During World War II, he was interred on the Isle of Man, but was released three months later. In 1943, he married Irene Chierico and the couple went on to have five girls and a boy.

By the late 1940s he was head of Forte Holdings Limited and in the 1950s had branched out into catering at Heathrow Airport.

He also opened the first motorway service station at Newport Pagnell in 1959. By 1970, following mergers, he was at the helm of Trusthouse Forte which owned the likes of Little Chef and Travelodge. It was now a multi-billion pound empire.

In 1970, Forte was knighted by the Queen Mother and in 1982 became Baron Forte of Ripley in Surrey. He was also appointed Knight of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta.

In 1992, he retired and handed over the reins of the business to his son Rocco. A hostile takeover bid by Granada was successful and the business fell out of family hands.

Charles Forte died in his sleep in his London home on February 28th, 2007. His wife died in 2010 and was buried beside her husband in West Hampstead Cemetery.

Charles’ son Rocco has built his own hotel “empire”  Rocco Forte Hotels might be modest compared to what his father owned, but the 14 hotels “ From London to Rome, Sicily to Florence, Berlin to Edinburgh each Rocco Forte Hotel is as Unique and Special as the Place it Calls Home.”  The Fortes own The beautiful Balmoral Hotel at number 1 Princes Street Edinburgh.

The first four pics are of Charles, the rest are some of the businesses across Scotland, in order they are Charles at Horsemarket in Kelso., Loanhead,  Friars Street in Stirling, Girvan, Biggar, and Galashiels

[unabashedqueenfury]

Reign 2013-17

Maria e Francesco

"Vieni; usciamo. Tempo è di rifiorire."

[royalty-nobility]

The Abdication of Mary Queen of Scots

Artist: Gavin Hamilton (Italian, 1723–1798)

Genre: History Painting

Date: 1786

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: National Galleries, Edinburg

Mary, Queen of Scots

Mary, Queen of Scots, also known as Mary Stuart, was the queen of Scotland from December 1542 until July 1567. The death of Mary’s father, which occurred just days after her birth, put her on the throne as an infant. She briefly became queen consort in France before returning to Scotland. Forced to abdicate by Scottish nobles in 1567, Mary sought the protection of England's Queen Elizabeth I, who instead had her arrested. Mary spent the remainder of her life in captivity until her 1587 execution.

[the-busy-ghost]

Minor throwaway sentence in a book on corruption I've just finished was talking about 1930s gangsters and about certain organisations in Chicago which the author stated were more ethnically diverse than the Italian mafia, and whose members were said to have included 'Irish, Welsh, Italian, and Jewish' gangsters.

Now call me sheltered but I've seen MANY Italian American gangsters immortalised in film, I've heard of the Jewish mob, and the police Irish American gangs but I have yet to see a movie about the Welsh mob. As a rule I don't go in for gangster movies but I feel there's an unfilled niche here and also I need more info.

[charlesreeza]

The Nightmare of Elizabeth I, c 1890, by Pasquale Liotta Cristaldi

Museo Civico al Castello Ursino - Catania, Sicily  

Photos by Charles Reeza

[gwendolynlerman]

Unfortunately, I don't like beer, so I'll never be able to use this knowledge.

I think that the Swedish one is wrong, it should be "tack", if I'm not mistaken.

(Yesterday someone thought I was Irish because of my English accent. He wasn't a native speaker, though; he was German. I don't know how to feel about it, because I love Irish people but my accent is American 🙃)

[swallowtail-ageha]

The devastating effects that my anxiety-induced ED left on my body and health and me SHing with needles when i was 15 suddenly leaving me because dafne said that my problems weren't as bad as hers because she got diagnosed with depression and i didn't:

[keekee-chan]

Me: *makes a reference to being Korean in a tiktok comment*

Weirdos: *try to "prove" I'm faking it by pointing out I look white in the 5 videos i have posted*

Me: *confused in Whasian*

[arctic-hands]

[Image Description: first image: stock photo of three black t-shirts. The first one says on top "Irish By Blood American By Birth" followed by the American flag (thirteen horizontal stripes alternating between red and white, a blue box in the upper left corner containing fifty white stars) merging with the Irish flag (three vertical stripes of green, white, and orange), with the bottom text saying "Patriot By Choice". The second shirt has a fading out Thin Blue Line flag used by American police (a vertical American flag with the red replaced by black, usually with the third white stripe from the right replaced with a blue line, but on this shirt the blue line has been replaced with green, followed by a white stripe and then an orange stripe). The third flag has a somewhat transparent police badge superimposed over the Irish flag, with the word "Irish" up top in big letters, and smaller letters I can't make out on the bottom. Second image: a screenshot of D.W. from the cartoon Arthur (an anthropomorphic animal nominally called an aardvark but lacking the long nose, leaving a flat, tanned fur face and with darker human-like hair in a bob), looking at someone/thing offscreen with a look of disbelief and/or disgust on her face. End I.D.]

Irish people, I NEED to know: What do you think of these weird shirts that rednecks in my home town wear?

[scotianostra]

Charles Edward Stewart was born in Palazzo Muti, Rome, Italy, on 31 December 1720, where his father had been given a residence by Pope Clement XI.

I think I have covered enough of Charlies exploits in Scotland during the '45 so today I have just put together a wee bit background up to the time he started getting involved in what he seen as his birthright.

His father, James Francis Edward Stuart, had been brought to Rome as an infant when his deposed father, James VII, received Papal support after fleeing London in 1689. James Francis married Maria Clementina, a Polish princess with a large inheritance, in 1719. After the failures of the second and third Jacobite Risings in Scotland at the beginning of the 18th century, the birth of a Stuart heir was heartening to the Jacobite cause.

Charles was charismatic and sociable from a young age, characteristics that would later compensate for his lack of skill in battle. As a royal heir, he was privileged and well educated, particularly in the arts. He spoke several languages, including enough Gaelic, although those who want to detract from this intelligent young man will tell you couldn't even speak English, this is so untrue, it is also said he could play the bagpipes.

As the son of the claimant and heir apparent to the throne of Great Britain, Charles was raised to believe in his divine right to an absolute monarchy, It was his life’s purpose to ascend to the throne of Scotland, Ireland, and England, and it was this belief that ultimately lead to the so-called Young Pretender’s defeat, as his desire to capture London after securing Edinburgh exhausted his dwindling troops and supplies in the winter of 1745.

In order to reclaim the throne, James and Charles needed support from a powerful ally. After the death of Louis XIV in 1715, France revoked its support of the Jacobite cause for a time but in 1743 they decided to send an invading force to Britain, led by ´the Young Pretender´, as his enemies called him. The scheme fell through due to stormy weather. The Prince decided to go ahead without French assistance, and he set out for Scotland with only a handful of companions, landing in the Outer Hebrides in July 1745.

[scims-stuff]

I think it’s just kinda ironic that Hozier released a song dedicated to the destruction of native culture and language, and most of you seem to be allergic to referring to the Irish language as Irish.

Gaelic is an umbrella term that describes many languages, mainly Irish, Welsh, and Scots Gaelic. Gaelic is not an actual language (or at least not anymore). All three are distinct languages with their own spellings and grammar. In the De Selby bts video Hozier himself refers to it as Irish.

You would not refer to Spanish as romantic when it could also mean French and Italian. Show some respect.

[violentdevotion]

WHITE PEOPLE. RANKED

based off of my polls: 🩶 🤍 🩷

irish irish

scots

stoners

spicy white new yorkers

rednecks/hillbillies

british (north)

gay european

italian italians

italian americans

tomato europeans

stoic european

"technically not white"

white latinos

irish american

geeks/weebs

british (south)

football hooligan european

white catholics

enlightened american hipster

rednecks/hillbillies (racist)

white orthodox christians

smug liberal european

WASP

south african

[cobaltrequiem]

MY MOST ITALIAN OF UQUIZZES BE UPON YE

[occamstfs]

Slice of Italy

After an accident outside a local Italian restaurant, Jonathan finds himself itching to hop in the kitchen himself.

Bear TF with all that implies! In other news I think I'm going to go down to one story a week, been spending a little too much energy here. May open commissions if there is an interest there? Who knows! At any rate, enjoy this story! -Occam

It wasn’t even Jonathan’s fault the statue was broken. His clearly too drunk friends were jacking around and not listening to his voice of reason. The poor DD was just standing closest when it was inevitably knocked over and shattered. If he had followed their lead and fled, it’s likely they’d all be off scot-free, but his need to atone for his friend’s actions in whatever paltry way he could led him to start gathering the scattered pieces.

Hearing the shattering plaster, the hostess runs outside with a gasp as she takes in the scene. She stares in shock at Jonathan before retreating inside to surely grab someone more important. Jonathan is again left with the all too desirable option of flight, staring at pieces of the stereotypical Italian chef he sighs and keeps to his principles, slowly picking up pieces.

Really he did them a favor, he’s always hated the thing. Creepy little thing. He’s been coming here all his life and it’s always seemed like the eyes have followed him. Seeing them lifeless and cracked on the ground doesn’t make them any less eerie though. Nor does the disembodied plaster smirk lying askew to their side. Before he can shudder Jonathan jumps as the door to the restaurant slams open and out comes a burly manager, “Ah c’mon kid, now why’d ya go and do that?” 

Jonathan drops the shards of the statue he still held in shock as he stammers to explain that really he’s not at fault. Never especially good at doing anything but ceding ground to authority figures he immediately folds, “I well, um it wasn’t really my fault um. It was, uh- I’ll do whatever I can to make this right. I-” Looking in the young man’s eyes the manager sighs and waves him off, “No no kid don’t you- Accident’s happen. Hmph Cavallo loved that statue though hah!” There’s a sadness in his eyes as he looks at the shattered man once more before returning his gaze to Johnathan with a squint.

“You’re the youngest Clark boy eh?” Correct, though now well an adult, there remains a tinge of irritation any time it’s brought up that he will always be the youngest, the smallest, no matter how long time treks onward. Still, not the time, “Yes sir.” The manager scratches the back of his head and motions the younger man inside, “Why don’t you come in, I’ll have one of my hosts sweep up the mess later.” Jonathan furrows his brow as he’s ushered inside, any attempts he makes at offering his hand to do the dirty work are met with hems and haws from the manager as he is instead led into an office in the back of house.

“You just sit here Jonny and I’ll uh- Hm?” He pauses and looks at Jonathan, no, past Jonathan. As if he’s staring through the young man and seeing something beyond. Something different. Seconds pass and a pit grows in Jonathan’s stomach as the manager twitches soundlessly, wanting the moment to pass he calls out to the man, “Romeo? You alright?” 

Focus returns to the manager’s eyes and he laughs, “Hah! Of course, sorry about that sir! You just let me know if you need anything Mr. Clark.” With that he does a nod and closes the door behind himself, there’s the click of a lock but Jonathan doesn’t notice as he instead hones in on the fact that he just called the manager by his name.

He racks his mind to remember if he introduced himself, the manager did recognize him after all? Perhaps they’ve met before. He chews on the idea and tries to ignore the feeling of pulling the man’s name from some place in his mind he doesn’t have access to. Maybe he was wearing a name tag. Of course, with a sigh of relief tension fades from his chest before he even realizes how tight it had become from anxiety. He has all employees wear name tags after all, helps the customers feel at home.

After a second of rest he is struck with the implications of that flitting thought. He what!? Tightness in his chest returns with a furor as memories or meetings with teams of people he doesn’t recognize flash through his mind. Planning a culture, running shifts, designing a restaurant. Clutching at his chest with one hand and his head with the other Jonathan worries he’s losing it and goes to sit down. Reflexively opting for the cushy desk chair behind the desk rather than either of the two by the door. “God it was just a tacky statue, why am I having an episode about this!?” 

Sitting in the boss’ chair Jonathan finds himself growing unreasonably warm. Sweat drips from his brow as he tries to bring to mind strategies one would use to soothe a panic attack. Looking for something solid in the room to focus on Jonathan sees a photo of the owner standing next to the gaudy statue. Grimacing, through grinding teeth he grunts out a “not helpful.” Even less helpful is the ensuing migraine, as it pangs he blinks concertedly and upon reopening his eyes he finds the image has shifted to one of himself standing next to the statue, a too large smile plastered on his face just like that of the god-awful statue. Somewhere repressed within him the phrase ‘happiest day of my life’ pings, though his conscious mind resounds with an image of his college graduation.

Clearly unable to find peace in this room he fights against his perpetually pliant instincts and stands to leave despite Romeo’s request. Now standing, he realizes something bizarre has seemingly begun to happen to his body. It’s like he’s bloated? Looking down he sees buttons on his shirt suddenly straining. His indisputably slim waist has begun to expand. The sensation of being starved and sated paradoxically rise at once within Gionathan as he feels the sudden urge, an otherworldly need to burp. He chokes it down at first but as his waist continues to strain, now revealing skin in between buttons as his chest too begins to bulge he is unable to stop the rising gas.

Polite young man he is, even as it erupts he tries to at least quiet his burp, which only causes it to burst with more force. Louder than those performative burps that blare from his less than couth cohort, his face burns with embarrassment despite being alone in the room. His body doesn’t stop at one either, he belches uncontrollably as body inches larger with each release. Quickly bursting buttons off the front of his shirt and freeing a torso that, alongside growing a healthy layer of weight, has begun to itch.

His blonde treasure trail has slowly begun to thicken as his fingers furiously scratch into his new weightier gut. Not noticing the definitive muscle hiding beneath he instead balks as he feels his light body hair spread out and upwards. Sticky sweat still covering his form as the heat has not abated in the slightest he looks down to observe the unfamiliar curves sticking out from his chest as his few nearly invisible chest hairs begin to thicken in the center of his chest, meeting the still rising furry patch on his stomach. 

The movement of his arms bring a new change to his mind as they too have not been spared from these must be imagined changes. New biceps breach the open air as they bulge large enough to tear the sleeves into tatters, not obscene but simply too large to be restrained by his usually loose fitting button-up. Gionathan has never been especially proud of his figure, but looking down and seeing something more akin to the countless forms of men he’s masturbated to throughout the years brings a new, less terryfying emotion to whatever this nightmare is.

Gionathan feels butterflies in his chest as he clutches at definitive pecs that now lie on top of it. He bites his lip as the idea that there’s now something you can grab there shoots a wave of static into his mind. Knees almost giving way as he takes time to explore his changes, Gionathan returns to sit in his chair and feel himself up. As he continues to chew on his lip to avoid moaning, his eyes remain shut to allow his imagination to flourish. 

This leaves him unaware of the tan that has begun to tint his changing body. Having not been exposed to sunlight in well over a decade, pasty is almost too generous a word to describe his pale torso. And yet, as his thickening hands trail across his meatier waist and play with a chest still growing weightier, his skin darkens to one naturally sun-kissed. 

Wider palms smearing sweat across an expanding torso, his mind begins to drift. Playing with chest hair as it grows thicker his fingertips almost accidentally come across nipples that have grown extensively as his pecs begins to bulge larger. Beginning to play with them his changes begin to accelerate. His mouth scrunches up as itches begin to burn across his face. Stubble that has been kept off his face from a once-a-week shave rapidly rears its head before it thickens en masse. Sideburns shove themselves wider to cover the whole of his cheeks before expanding under his chin as each follicle surges larger and darkens.

Green eyes flicker brown as Gionovan’s suddenly dark stubble quickly leaks upward, staining his pert blonde coif dirty, then brown, before finally turning as black as the curls that have begun to overtake his chest. Each strand changes as his hands continue to dance and delight in his bulkier body. His mouth scrunches as a mustache he’s never dreamed of growing begins to bulge out of his upper lip. Thicker than the hair on his head as memories of his hairline retreating over the years begin to assert themselves into his memory. Coffee dark eyes twitch while remaining closed, his hands trail up to his neck and come across scratchy stubble as he realizes that something is happening beyond skin deep changes. 

Pausing his reverie, the young man no longer’s eyes open to see a name plate on his desk, Gionovan Clarvallo. “No, tha’s not-” He clutches at his throat as his voice rumbles deeper. Gionovan stands with a start and the sound of the seat of his pants tearing open resounds in the room. He groans and leans on the table as thighs grow wide and his ass expands into quite a powerful cushion. Clenching his stubble hidden jaw he can barely even realize that he lost something when he languished in his changing form. The label young man doesn’t quite apply anymore as smile crinkles crack around his eyes. His mind races once more to find things to hold onto.

He’s Gionovan Clarvallo. He’s lived in this town for most of his life, or no he lived in the city for a while didn’t he? The man groans as two lifetimes crash into each other like a fusion reaction. His studies evaporate to be replaced by prodigious years at culinary school. His gap year fades as recollections of traveling New York City to find hidden gems and expand his palette grow increasingly vivid, and unknowingly vital to who he is. Once more Gionovan feels a rising need to burp. Hand curling into a fist he covers his mouth and he sees dark curls bathe down his fore arm.

The forest of hair that had only just begun to decorate his chest and stomach rapidly begins to thicken to cover every inch of his form as he struggles once more against pressure rising up his throat. Gionovan launches into a fit of belching once more. With each release his body changes further, jungle of chest hair spreading further, expanding and thickening, growing dark enough to completely hide tanned skin beneath it. His whole body grows wider, taller, heavier. Sweat trails down the side of his torso as his wildly increasing haven of pit hair drips with his new heady musk. Pants burst to shreds as his thighs grow to a size that can scarcely be covered while newly hairy shoulders grow bulkier to match his thickening neck and the weighty arms they are charged to maneuver. 

Clutching at his stomach as it expands and grows fluffier with both darkening hair and comfortable weight, Gionovan realizes something. He tastes food more delicious than he’s ever experienced before dancing across his tongue. Flavors unfathomable and unfamiliar make their home in his mouth as his body continues to morph with every heaving release. Pesto sears his sinuses as the waistband of his underwear begins to struggle against his expanding ass and the suddenly monolithic testament to his masculinity bulging in his crotch. Airy gelato cleanses his palate as his stomach begins to hang over said waistband as his legs grow thick enough to send tears in the elastic and curls grow thick enough across them to be a pelt. The aftertaste of rich creamy fresh tomato pasta overwrites more and more of who he once was as memories of his time in the kitchen and traveling the world for new tastes chips away at whatever edges of Jonathan that remain.

As he sits in the office, his office, rubbing at a torso that is rapidly becoming a hairy musclegut, he scratches at his thickening beard as a strange instinct rises as the aftertastes, or memories rather, continue to ephemerally rise. He could cook better than that. It’s why he opened his restaurant after all. To offer nothing but the best to this little town. To help ensure that every inch of the world has to experience the heavenly flavors he’s been so fortunate to enjoy. It’s why he opened his Slice of Italy. Standing with a grunt, there’s a knock on the office door and he realizes that he is almost completely nude. With a gasp, Giovanni clears his throat and calls out, “One minute Romeo!” 

He goes to a cabinet in the corner and pulls out a change of clothes, well-suited to his massive form. He’s learned that a man of his size, and passion, should always keep an outfit on standby, after all it’s impossible to predict what any odd day will hold. Quickly struggling into the clothes he figures it’s about time to go up a size as gets the snug clothes on. Smiling at a picture of himself with the statue out front, Giovanni Cavallo goes to unlock his office door and greet his manager. Romeo smirks knowingly at the restaurant’s owner and executive chef before directing the massive man’s attention to a couple of younger men standing uncomfortably near the entrance.

“Evening Hon. Those two over there are the ones that uh, broke the display.” Giovanni puts his meaty hand on Romeo’s shoulder and with a wink rumbles out, “Thanks Rome. Know I can always count on you.” Matching silver bands appear on the fingers of both men and Romeo rolls his eyes before heading off to manage the front of house before the dinner rush is to begin. Giovanni then turns his attention to the hellions awaiting his reprimanding. Sizing them up he imagines what retribution they are to undergo. They could just pay for damages but where’s the fun in that. After all he was always quite fond of that little guy, almost a spitting image of himself he thinks with a smirk, not nearly as hot though. Flexing involuntarily he meets the pair and they immediately squeal.

The pair toss each other under the bus before Giovanni even has a chance to open his mouth and the massive chef scowls. No, these two need to be taught a lesson. At the clearing of his throat the bickering rats are struck mute and stare up at the owner. The kitchen could use a couple new junior chefs. Imagining the two men before him shaping up to fine young professionals under his tutelage, he has no recourse but to offer they work off the damages, “You boys any good in the kitchen?” Shiftily looking at each other the idea seems easy enough and in no time at all Romeo’s tossed them aprons and they’re in the back of house working up a sweat.

They find themselves more at home prepping vegetables and decorating dishes than they do in their actual homes. Quickly do they become acclimated enough to the kitchen that doing anything else is anathema to them. Their light hair rapidly shades darker and their outfits adapt to become suitable to the jobs they enjoy so much. The pair of once ruffians shift and stretch as their physiques become impressive as Giovanni’s was way back when he was their age. Wandering about his restaurant, the executive greets guests and compliments his staff, driving them to strive even harder to make him proud. 

When he gets to his two newest hires, Alessio and Angelo, Giovanni watches them sprout taller as beards race to thicken and hide their shy smirks from his praise. Patting them on the back both men struggle to focus on their tasks at hand as his attention brings them more satisfaction than they could imagine. Commenting on their impressive figures he offers to show them the ropes at the gym in their free time and the junior chefs make eye contact as their biceps bulge larger. Giovanni laughs heartily, bringing a smile to everyone within earshot as they continue to craft the perfect slice of Italy in this small town. “You boys remind me of when I was younger heh, Keep up the good work!”

With that Giovanni goes to stand sentinel at the entrance and welcome guests in. In lieu of his little standee someone’s gotta be the first smiling face that guests see, and given how smooth nights at Giovanni’s Slice of Italy always are, his presence is superfluous. He’s just happy to be here and every day the titan strives to make sure that every guest and employee is as well.

[modernmutiny]

Me: I'm totally not addicted to learning languages, I'm very normal about it

🦉👀: YOU GONNA KEEP THAT 826 DAY STREAK, NERD? YOU GONNA LEARN ITALIAN TODAY? VAFFANCULO, PUTTANA STUPIDA

[candela888]

How to say "grape" in Romance and Germanic languages in Europe

From Latin ūva (“grape”):

uva (Spanish/Castilian)

uva (Asturian)

uva (Italian)

uva (Portuguese)

uga/uba (Aragonese)

uva (Galician)

uva (Judaeo-Spanish)

uva (Piedmontese)

uga (Lombard)

iva (Romansch)

úa (Sardinian)

ùa/ova (Venetian)

auã (Aromanian)

From Latin racēmus ("cluster or bunch of grapes"):

raisin (French)

racina (Sicilian)

raïm (Catalan)

rasim (Occitan)

resim (Franco-Provençal)

roésin (Picard)

roejhén (Walloon)

Unknown origin:

strugure (Romanian)

---------

From Old French grape (cluster of fruit or flowers, bunch of grapes"):

grape (English

grape (Scots)

Literally "wine-berry":

Wiitrybel (Alemannic German)

Weinba/Weinbeer (Upper/Southern German)

vínber (Icelandic)

From Proto-West Germanic *þrūbō ("cluster" or "grape"):

Traube (German)

drue (Danish)

druva (Swedish)

drue (Norwegian)

druif/wijndruif (Dutch)

druif (Afrikaans)

troyb (Yiddish)

Druve/Druuv (Low German)

drúf (West Frisian)

Drauf (Luxembourgish)