The Old Man and the seat
Sunday, 22 February 2026
Mike White is a senior writer and columnist.
OPINION: He came here every morning.
Well, if it was miserable and sleety, he would give it a miss. But most mornings, you could find him here, on the seat, beside the path, across from the beach, looking out over the lake.
He had a walking pole, leaning beside him on the seat, his only companion on his daily trips.
The seat was simple, with a plaque to its benevolent donors, but the view was stupendous.
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We ambled down the same path, and sat on a smooth log at the beach’s edge.
Our old dog had done well to get here.
With his hearing and eyesight dwindling, we stay in close attendance to avert accidents. There is a slalom of rabbit holes to negotiate, undulations, and endless smells in the bushes that he has to investigate, causing sudden and perilous diversions.
But he loves this walk, a mix of vast grass, tall trees, and fabulously scented shrubbery.
And at the end of it, there’s the lake, with the promise of sticks gently tossed into its shallows for him to triumphantly retrieve.
For the Old Dog, it’s about the journey and the destination.
When we arrived at the beach, the Old Dog pestered us for treats we’d forgotten, and stared at us until we picked up a stick for a bit of a game.
From the seat, the Old Man watched us, and remembered the dogs he’d had in his life.
His hands jiggled constantly. At first I thought it was just a tic, but then realised what it was.
I wandered over and said hello.
“You’ve got an old dog,” the Old Man said with a kind smile. “What, 15?”
“Sixteen,” I replied, and the Old Man nodded knowledgeably. “That’s a good age. That’s a very good age.”
He’d had a weimaraner, a lab, and a schnauzer in the past, and walked miles with them.
“But now I’ve got this Parkinson’s, I can’t really have one. It’s just a bit difficult when I’m unsteady.”
But he still went walking each day, as that was one way to fight the disease’s creep.
“Is that the only thing that will help?” I asked.
“No, there’s drugs, every day. They help a bit.”
There seemed to be an emphasis on the “a bit”, like it was so minimal it was inconsequential. The bloody disease marched on, and there was bugger all to be done about it.
Except, march on.
So the Old Man did, every morning, to this lovely spot.
There’s a quip that golf is a good walk spoilt.
Conversely, I’ve always thought that any good walk was enormously enhanced by sharing it with a dog.
I sensed the Old Man would have loved to have a friend at heel on his morning ambles.
He looked at the Old Dog, and smiled, recognising kindredship in their age and ailments.
“He’s doing all right,” the Old Man said, as the Old Dog stood on the beach, wondering why I wasn’t lobbing a stick for him.
“Oh, he has his good days and not so good days,” I said. “A bit like you, I suppose.”
The Old Man had lived around here much of his life, holidaying for decades, before retiring nearby 10 years ago.
Oh, it had changed lots, he nodded - but there was none of that instinctive rejoinder that frequently follows - the “it was better in the old days”.
No, it was just what it was.
The very same things that attracted him to the area in the first place, and saw him want to live here permanently, were the same things that attracted so many others. They weren’t his to hoard.
You couldn’t put a fence round the place after you moved here, and say, nobody else was allowed in.
“You can’t do anything about it,” he shrugged.
And anyway, here we were on a Sunday morning on a popular part of the lake, and there were just a few passersby, and a couple of kayaks and a rowing skiff on the perfectly placid lake.
You pretty much had the view to yourself.
The Old Dog wasn’t much of one for views. He was bored with the chit chat by now, and his legs needed to get moving again to stop stiffening up.
The Old Man needed to get moving too, get home. We said bye and sauntered off.
We took the high road, that led to the park where the grass was softer on the Old Dog’s paws, and we could admire the giant walnut trees full of fruit.
The Old Man took the low road, around the lake edge, stepping along at a steady pace, walking pole swinging by his side.
I watched him for a while, making his way along the pretty track.
I hoped I’d meet him again, some time.