Martyn Rhisiart Jones

A Coruña, Saturday 14th February 2026

Oh, marvellous. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, the fourteenth of February, twenty twenty-six. The nation is already knee-deep in the annual ritual of manufactured affection. There’s pink packaging everywhere and the faint whiff of desperation lingers. And now, because apparently one layer of cynicism isn’t enough, we’re adding this so-called Celtic mysticism. It’s as if it’s the missing ingredient that turns a cynical cash-grab into something profound and ancient. How delightfully Welsh of us. We can’t resist a bit of mythic bollocks to make the whole thing feel less embarrassing.

Celtic mysticism on Valentine’s Day.

Yes, let’s all nod sagely. Imagine the druids out there in the sodden fields of Gwynedd, frost on their beards. They invoked Brigid not for blacksmithing, lambing, or poetic inspiration, but specifically for another reason. It was so that in two thousand years’ time, a person in Cardiff could buy a heart-shaped box of Roses. It would be for them to pretend it’s part of an unbroken chain of sacred Welsh romance. Nothing screams eternal Celtic soul louder than a greeting card. It costs three quid ninety-nine. It also says “You’re my world” in glitter font.Imbolc, they tell us.

It is the first or second of February. The goddess Brigid is celebrated along with the fire in the hearth. This time marks the first milk of the ewes. It reflects the slow crawl back of daylight after the long dark. Proper Welsh stuff, that. Damp, hopeful, quietly defiant. Then the Christians swan in, as they always do, and go, “Lovely festival you’ve got here. Shame if something happened to it. We’ll just pop a saint on top – Valentine, was it? Roman chap who got topped for being too good at weddings – and call it romantic love day.

Sorted.” We Welsh are ever the polite collaborators. We go along with it because arguing with Rome never ended well. Arguing with Hallmark ends even less well. Fast forward to now: supermarkets look like Brigid herself vomited rose petals everywhere. Couples panic-buy Prosecco. If they don’t mark the occasion, the algorithm will judge them loveless. Some earnest soul in a woolly jumper on TikTok explains how Valentine’s is “really” a Celtic fertility rite. This is true if you squint hard enough and ignore the receipts. Fertility rite! The Celts were too busy trying not to freeze to death or get conquered to worry about scheduling date nights. Their idea of romance was probably not getting sacrificed to the gods after a bad harvest.

Brigid would be laughing her forge-hot arse off if she were watching us. Imagine the sight of us queuing in Marks and Spencer for overpriced steak while pretending it’s spiritual.It’s peak Welsh, isn’t it? We take something English and American and commercial, then smugly Celticise it to feel superior. “Ah yes, but in Wales it’s actually Imbolc-Valentine’s fusion, see. With extra mysticism and a side of quiet resentment.” Adding a bit of knotwork doesn’t make spending forty quid on dinner somehow noble. Mentioning standing stones won’t transform a regrettable meal into something valiant. The druids would have taken one look at a heart-shaped balloon saying “Be Mine” and sacrificed the balloon salesman on the spot. Proper Celtic efficiency.

So tomorrow, when you’re sat in a restaurant lit like a crime scene, remember this. You’re staring at a menu where everything has “Valentine’s” slapped on it like a surcharge for breathing. Just remember: this isn’t ancient Welsh magic. It’s not even particularly Welsh. This scenario arises when you leave a beheaded Roman and a fire goddess in a room. Add several centuries of colonisation and a marketing department to the mix with a bottle of mead. Tell them to sort out February. The result is us pretending it’s profound. Secretly, we wish we’d just stayed in with a cuppa and a good book. Happy Valentine’s. Or Imbolc. Or whatever we’re calling this cynical hybrid when the wilting roses hit the bin on Monday. May your heart be as full as your overdraft. May your mysticism be as authentic as a tourist’s “Cymru am byth” tattoo. Diolch yn fawr.

Many thanks for reading.