Oxford: a place for lovers?

What makes a city feel romantic? Oxford, certainly, looks the part: honey-coloured stone, lamplit and cobbled lanes, churches, and spires—as much a living film set as a city, and directors have long agreed. From Brideshead Revisited (2008) to Saltburn (2023), Oxford has been a backdrop for romantic longing, from the poetic to the faintly absurd. In Bruce Robinson’s Withnail and I (1987), the fastidious Uncle Monty, mid-Baudelaire, cannot help but sigh:  “Oh, Oxford…”  Yet for all it suggests atmospherically, Oxford seems to have overpromised—amidst all its libraries, little space has been left for love. Saint Valentine himself is a figure of uncertain provenance—variously described as a martyr, a priest, and the patron saint of lovers (and, somewhat improbably, beekeepers). In his honour, and in the absence of a Valentine of my own, I went looking for something else—for the spaces where romance might actually be found. 

 

Oxford is a small city, and its baristas and bar staff have seen everything that modern courtship has to offer—from first dates to break-ups, Hinge dates, to chance-encounters. I was shocked that coffee is a popular first-date —a safe option, though dangerously close to friend territory (and what happened to going for dinner?) You might easily wonder whether you are on a date at all—and, evidently, baristas are asking the same question. At Artisan Tree, a shy barista insists that she does not mean to observe, but it is difficult not to be intrigued.  There are giveaways, I am told: the polite ‘did you find it here okay?’; the earnest discussion of coffee-orders; the awkward shuffle when it comes to paying; and then there is the unmistakable we’ve-just-made-it off-Hinge-double-take. At Jericho Coffee Traders, I ask whether any of the baristas are ever asked out themselves: ‘It happens to one girl all the time—she looks like Barbie.’

 

 Little goes unnoticed here, and nothing is kept a secret for long—that is, except at the Missing Bean, whose baristas firmly refused any comment. At Common Ground, a chatty barista tells me about a man who scheduled three dates in a single afternoon, all at the same table—efficiency is the name of someone’s game in Oxford. ‘Then there are the polyamorous groups’, she tells me: ‘we get them surprisingly often’— ‘for some reason they always take the window seat’. At Edge—Jericho’s most intimate coffee shop— a solemn barista describes two first dates that happened a few days earlier—incidentally, at the same time: ‘I let them stay almost two hours after closing. They were really hitting it off. It felt like a privilege to hold that space’. 

 

My questioning was less welcome across Oxford’s pubs—it seems baristas are particularly invested in matters of love. At The Star—Cowley’s most respectable date choice—a floppy-haired publican winces as he remembers a girl arriving for a date, only to be stood up. He offered her a drink on the house—an  improvement, I am sure, on her intended company. 

 

My next stops were Oxford’s beloved independent cinemas: the Picturehouse in Jericho and Cowley’s Ultimate Picture Palace. These cinemas are taking opposite approaches to Valentine’s Day this year. For those who choose to give in to romance, the North Oxford mainstay will be showing Emerald Fennell’s swoon-worthy Wuthering Heights (2026). Down in Cowley a showing of Rob Reiner’s American horror thriller Misery (1990)—the ultimate anti-romance film—will offer respite from the seasonal goo. I will be spending the evening with Jacob Elordi, but kudos to the team at the UPP—at least their programmer has a sense of humour. 

 

Cinemas have been a classic date spot since their inception—certainly the date spot for most of the 20th century. They are dark, transportive, and an open invitation to rule-breaking. To my surprise, horror films are still a popular first-date choice. One cinema attendant describes his bemusement when a pair—evidently just introduced—bought two tickets to Coralie Fargeat’s body-horror The Substance (2024).

 

But the cinema is not just a place for lovers, it is also a place one can go to be alone—and where friendships are often formed in unexpected ways. From the box office at the UPP, I am told that after a screening of Juzo Itami’s Tampopo (1985) one audience member turned to the stranger beside him and remarked that the film—billing itself a ‘Ramen Western’—had made him hungry. The stranger agreed, and by the time the credits had finished rolling they had made dinner plans—and so a friendship was formed over a bowl of ramen. 

 

From inside the box office, or behind the bar, a secret world comes into view—one full of imaginative possibilites. The same cinema attendant confesses that when only a handful of tickets are sold, she imagines placing strangers next to each other, just to see what might happen. At the Picturehouse, I am told about the older couple who come in every so often: ‘they are clearly still in love’. They laugh at one other apologetically when they reach the front of the ticket queue, having forgotten to get their membership cards out in time again. 

 

At Peloton, a man completes the Sunday crossword each week. He used to come in with his partner, but they are long distance now. The baristas like to think that she is completing it at the same time. At Jericho Coffee Traders, I am told about a couple who returned, on their wedding day—this was where they had their first date. I am shown a polaroid of the pair, still in their wedding clothes, sitting on the bench outside where they first met.

 

Oxford’s historic buildings offer no exemption from the painful realities of modern dating, but in corners of the city, love is unfolding in unexpected ways. You only need to look closely—or ask the right people—and you will find it.

 

Words by Carolina Julius. The Small Town II by Egon Schiele via Wikimedia Commons.