Yesterday, Ireland marked Valentine’s Day. Not only in romance, but in memory, history, devotion, literature, myth, and remembrance.

The oldest surviving written reference to a martyr named Valentine appears in the 4th century Roman calendar known as the Depositio Martyrum, part of the Chronography of 354. It records his commemoration on 14 February.

That is the earliest documentary evidence attached to the name.

Very little else can be stated with certainty about the historical figure. Several martyrs named Valentinus appear in early Christian sources. Over time, stories accumulated and devotional traditions expanded. The name became associated with love, though the precise origins of that link remain uncertain.

Dublin’s connection came much later.

In 1835, relics attributed to St Valentine were gifted by Pope Gregory XVI to the Carmelite priest Fr John Spratt. They were installed at Whitefriar Street Church in 1836, where they remain today. Each February, couples and individuals visit quietly. Some come in hope. Some in gratitude. Some in memory.

As with many 19th century relic transfers, authentication followed Church practice of the period. Modern archaeological verification is not available. What can be stated clearly is limited but stable:

Rome provides the early written witness. Dublin sustains the devotion.

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If Valentine’s Day has an international name, Ireland has its own visual language.

The Claddagh ring, first made in Galway in the 17th century, remains one of the most recognised symbols of Irish affection and identity. Its design requires little explanation once understood.

❤️ The heart for love
🤝 The hands for friendship
👑 The crown for loyalty

The wearing custom most widely followed today developed later, but it is now standard practice in Ireland and across the diaspora.

Single
Right hand, heart facing out

In a relationship
Right hand, heart facing in

Engaged
Left hand, heart facing out

Married
Left hand, heart facing in

The direction of the heart signals openness or commitment. Moving the ring to the left hand marks intention or marriage.

It is simple. Visible. Direct.

Unlike many modern jewellery trends, the Claddagh was never decorative alone. In close communities, it conveyed status and intention. Even now, it carries meaning without explanation.

Where devotion is preserved in churches, loyalty is preserved in gold.

Long before rings formalised commitment, Irish myth explored its tensions.

In Tóraíocht Dhiarmada agus Ghráinne, The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne, Gráinne is promised to Fionn mac Cumhaill, leader of the Fianna. At the feast announcing their union, she sees Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, one of Fionn’s warriors.

Diarmuid bears a magical love spot beneath his eye. Any woman who sees it falls in love with him. Gráinne does.

When he refuses to betray Fionn, she places him under a geis, a binding obligation he cannot refuse. They flee together.

For years they are pursued across Ireland. Forest shelters. Caves. Temporary truces. The landscape itself becomes part of their exile.

Eventually an uneasy peace is reached, but resentment lingers.

Later, during a boar hunt, Diarmuid is mortally wounded. Only Fionn can save him by bringing healing water cupped in his hands. Twice, he lets it fall. On the third attempt, it is too late.

Medieval manuscripts do not fully agree on what follows. Some say Gráinne dies of grief. Others say she survives and later reconciles with Fionn.

Myth does not simplify love. It places it in conflict with loyalty, pride, obligation, and authority.

In June 1904, James Joyce met Nora Barnacle in Dublin. She was from Galway, working near Nassau Street. Sixteen June became the date he later fixed as the beginning of their shared story.

That evening they walked toward Ringsend. Years later, Joyce chose 16 June 1904 as the setting for his novel Ulysses. Bloomsday commemorates the fictional events of that book each year on the same date.

Behind the literary celebration lies a personal beginning.

Within months of meeting, they left Ireland together. They lived in Pola, Trieste, Paris, and Zurich. Though Dublin remained central to Joyce’s imagination, much of his work was written abroad.

They did not marry until 1931. Their partnership endured financial strain, illness, exile, and eventual recognition.

Bloomsday celebrates fiction. Its date marks a real walk by the sea.

History often reduces people to roles. Letters restore them.

Michael Collins met Kitty Kiernan through her family’s Greville Arms in Granard around 1917. Also present was Harry Boland, a close friend who also admired her.

Hundreds of Collins’ letters survive. They show impatience, affection, jealousy, longing, and humour. He wrote about ordinary hopes alongside extraordinary political pressures.

By early 1922, they were engaged.

But Ireland was dividing over the Anglo Irish Treaty. Boland opposed it. Collins led the Provisional Government that accepted it. Civil conflict followed.

Boland died from wounds on 2 August 1922. Collins was killed at Béal na mBláth on 22 August. He was 31.

Kitty later married Felix Cronin and named one of her sons Michael Collins Cronin. According to Glasnevin Cemetery records, she requested burial as near as possible to Collins. Today she lies not far from him.

The letters do not read like legend. They read like two young people trying to plan a future on unstable ground.

Valentine’s Day also holds a solemn anniversary.

In the early hours of 14th February 1981, a fire broke out at the Stardust Ballroom in Artane, Dublin.

Forty eight young people lost their lives. More than two hundred were injured.

They were aged between 16 and 27. Most had gone out for music and dancing. Families across Dublin waited for them to return home.

For decades, families and survivors campaigned for accountability. In 2024, fresh inquest verdicts of unlawful killing were returned for all 48 victims.

For many families, 14th February is not associated with romance. It is associated with names. With photographs. With flowers placed carefully each year.

Love in Ireland has never meant only one thing.

It is recorded in early calendars and preserved in Dublin churches. It is shaped in gold rings and tested in myth. It walks along city quays and writes from hotel rooms. It survives political fracture. It is remembered in quiet cemeteries.

And sometimes, it endures because we choose to remember.

Love remains in memory, devotion, story, and in the names we continue to speak.