My story 

Every journey starts somewhere... and mine began with an espresso I genuinely didn't enjoy.

I'd gone to Italy expecting coffee to be a religious experience. Instead, I found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with people knocking back tiny cups of something dark, bitter and deeply uncompromising. I wanted to enjoy it, but if I'm honest, I spent most of the time wondering whether I actually liked coffee or just liked the idea of liking it.

For a while I decided coffee simply wasn't my thing.

Then, a few years later, I wandered into a little café on Whitchurch Road in Cardiff, and ordered a flat white. It arrived without ceremony, looking innocent enough, until the first sip stopped me in my tracks. It tasted of berries, blackcurrants and an unfamiliar sweetness I’d never experienced with coffee. This wasn’t what coffee was supposed to taste like, and whatever was in that cup quietly changed everything I thought coffee could be.

Suddenly, I wasn't looking for cafés that served coffee. I was looking for cafés that cared about it. I became the person who would happily drive across South Wales because somebody had whispered about a good macchiato. I lingered a little too long by espresso machines to watch milk being expertly steamed, quizzed baristas about the difference between an americano and a long black, and discovered that coffee people are, almost without exception, generous with both their time and their knowledge.

Somewhere along the way, my kitchen quietly filled with grinders, scales and espresso gadgets, each one somehow essential. I had now fallen deep into the rabbit hole. 

The funny thing is that none of this was ever part of the plan. I studied law fully expecting to become a barrister. Instead, I found myself spending my evenings reading about extraction times, watching espresso videos and dreaming of becoming a barista.

Then life took me from Cardiff to Treorchy where I was promised that the valleys had an underground coffee culture. I always thought that you judge a coffee scene by how many cafés a place has. I was very wrong, and came to find that coffee culture isn't measured by quantity; it's measured by community. It's the nod from someone carrying the same takeaway cup every morning. It's knowing which café to visit because someone takes genuine pride in making your coffee properly. It's conversations that begin with the weather and somehow end up discussing espresso machines. Treorchy had this in abundance. Independent cafés, local businesses, familiar faces and the feeling that a good cup of coffee could still bring people together.

And that’s where the seed of Coffi Mabinogi was planted.

I grew up in a Welsh-speaking family where the Mabinogi wasn't something hidden away on a bookshelf; it was simply part of growing up. These were the stories my parents read to me before bed and the stories I now find myself reading to my own children.

Then, somewhere between a late-night espresso and a half-formed idea, I started wondering what would happen if those characters became coffees. After all, every coffee already came with a story... from the farmer, the land, and the journey from cherry to cup. But what if the coffee carried another story as well? One that belonged here in Wales. What if every coffee had a personality of its own?

Blodeuwedd first popped into my head. She was never going to drink a heavy espresso. She deserved something floral and delicate. Twrch Trwyth had to be loud, wild and just a little unpredictable. Bendigeidfran was the one that stayed with me. His story isn’t really about being a giant. It’s about carrying responsibility without making a fuss. Quiet strength. Loyalty. Sacrifice. The coffee had to feel the same way. Rich without being overpowering. Confident without showing off.

Now, I don't claim to know everything about coffee, and I'm certainly not pretending to rewrite Welsh mythology. I'm simply following two passions that somehow found each other at the right time.

Nobody handed me a tasting wheel or explained the science of arabica beans when I took that first sip on Whitchurch Road. They didn’t need to. Sometimes all it takes is one memorable cup to ruin every ordinary one that follows.