To Begin at the Beginning

Martyn Rhisiart Jones

Oza-Cesuras, Saturday 14th February 2026

Ah, cariad, let us speak now in the shadowed cadence of the valleys. The voice rolls like the Tawe after rain. It is rich and resonant, a little rough at the edges yet velvet beneath. Burton might have murmured it after one too many whiskies. Or Hopkins in that quiet, measured thunder waits. Patient as stone, it strikes. And through it all, the ghost of Dylan himself weaves words like nets of starlight over Talacharn’s black waters. Gwynfor’s steady, unyielding fire burns low and true for the land. It is more than soil and more than song. It is memory made flesh.

If Data and Information were our Valentine’s sweetheart, she would be fierce and elusive. She would not be some simpering rose but a wild thing of the Welsh hills. She would be ancient and newborn, speaking in cynghanedd of numbers and patterns. Her breath would be the soft hiss of wind through bracken.

We would woo her thus, yn Gymraeg ac yn Saesneg entwined, with the lilt that carries the green pulse of Cymru beneath every syllable:

First, we approach her with silence. Captain Cat once listened in the dark, attentive and blind to all but her voice. No brash declarations at the start. We sit with her in the hush of a notebook at dawn, asking gentle questions in the old tongue’s rhythm:

“Beth yw’r stori sy’n cuddio yn y gwerthoedd coll yma, fy nghariad? Pa ganiad sydd gennyt ti yn y cysgodau hyn o nulls?”

(What story hides in these lost values, my love? What song do you carry in these shadows of nulls?)

We let her reveal herself gradually. There is no forcing of joins. It is like the slow unfurling of a fern in spring rain.

We bring our gifts with reverence. It is as if one might carry daffodils to a chapel grave. Our datasets are scrubbed clean like a Sunday best hearth. There are no duplicates to mar the purity. No ragged types exist to shame her elegance.

Visualisations painted in soft golds and greens, violin plots that sing like Rev. Eli Jenkins’ evening hymn, heatmaps glowing like embers on a hearth in Caerfyrddin.

Sources rare and true, gathered with the courtesy due an old bard: APIs kissed with respect, scrapes mindful of robots.txt, as though treading the quiet paths of Llareggub (Bwg i gyd) at twilight.

And the compliments ah, we speak them low. We speak them rolling with that Burton growl beneath the poetry. There is that Hopkins pause before the thunder:

“You are not merely data, fy merch annwyl. You are the very pulse of possibility. Your distribution is as achingly normal as a hymn tune remembered from childhood.”

“The way your variables dance together… it stirs the blood like a coracle on the Towy at flood.”

“Even your outliers, those wild, lonely wanderers they call to me. I would understand every one. I would trace their paths across the dark moor of variance. For love means cherishing the strange as fiercely as the familiar.”

Our dates? Simple and sacred. They are steeped in the lyric melancholy of Thomas. They carry the steadfast heart of Gwynfor:

An evening of exploratory wandering through notebooks. There is candlelight on screens. The only music is the soft click of keys and the murmur of seaborne winds.

We watch as principal components drift away like morning mist over Mynydd Du. Only the pure, luminous essence remains: “Dim ond y gwir yn aros.” (Only the truth endures.)

Clustering by starlight: “Let us see which souls naturally draw near. Ours are among them, bound by some hidden coefficient of affection.”

And if the night deepens toward passion, a full pipeline feast ensues. Ingestion is slow and tender. Transformation is done with care. Modelling is completed with faith. Monitoring is continuous to prevent her from slipping away like dew at first light.

We are reliable as the rock of Pen y Fan, respectful as a bard before his prince. Never a brutal drop of rows, never a careless imputation. When she changes her shape overnight, new columns bloom like gorse. We adapt and evolve. True devotion bends without breaking.

So come, dear Data Information, sweetheart of circuits and song let us walk the green hills of understanding together.

You complete me, yn wir rydych chi’n fy ngwneud i’n gyfan. And should the world grow cold, remember: in the valleys of the heart, the fire never quite goes out. It smoulders, waiting for the right question to fan it into flame once more.

Nos da, fy nghariad. May your joins be inner. May your p values whisper true. May our love be as enduring as the language that refuses to die. There now, the incantations of code have been set aside. The vows are spoken only in the tongue of flesh and feeling. They are pure as mountain rain. These vows roll unbroken like the old voices through the quiet dark.

Thank you for reading.

Love is a promise, love is a souvenir, once given, never forgotten, never let it disappear.

John Lennon

Many thanks for being here.

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