Do park benches make us human?

On rediscovering benches, presence and the small moments that connect us to nature

Dear friends,

Last weekend, there came an unexpectedly warm and sunny day here in Cambridge.

Still chilly and feeling very much like February, with crisp blue skies, skeletal branches and snowdrops and crocuses peppering the flowerbeds, but suddenly, the sunshine gave that gentle, unfamiliar sensation of warmth on my face. All at once, the sound of birdsong was unignorable—a little faint and piecemeal, but nonetheless an unequivocal element of the day.

Completely out of the blue, I found myself noticing benches again, as I subconsciously searched for somewhere to take in these first stirrings of spring. Like unexpectedly bumping into old friends, it felt like my favourite spots from last spring were calling to me from where they had been patiently waiting, nestled in their welcoming corners.

Transformed by winter, but my old friend nonetheless.

Put simply, this is an appreciation post for park benches. These overlooked little features sit unassumingly, uncomplaining through all weathers, existing simply to provide us with moments of rest and stillness in the presence of nature.

I contemplated when I had last sat on a park bench, realising with surprise that it must have been on Christmas Day and, before that, last autumn. As beautiful as winter can be, the desperate need to keep hands tucked deep into pockets and chins nestled firmly within scarves does not encourage a generous pause or stretch out on a cold, often damp, wooden bench. We walk, we watch, we return home to warmth.

Yet as soon as this faint taste of spring sunshine raised its head, here was my gaze, immediately drawn to the very same benches on which I had spent so much of last year watching the seasons—writing, thinking, resting. I felt a gentle but inexorable urge of excitement drawing me towards my old friends, and I caught myself feeling strangely guilty for neglecting them these last few cold months, even going as far as to wonder whether they had been lonely without their usual company.

Sitting there with those gently warming rays dancing over my face, my eyes closed and my mouth curled into a deeply relaxed smile. I found myself sighing in deep gratitude that I had been reunited, yet completely taken aback as to just how little thought I had given these spots over the intervening months. While sitting on a bench, I feel present and calm, appreciative, but as soon as I leave them, I am all too ready to forget what they offer.

Unobtrusively waiting for us.

I often wonder how many other people sit on the same bench, who they are, what they sit there thinking about, what this particular spot holds for them. In this way, benches connect us silently with others whom we live amongst but never meet—a spot for community to build in hundreds of tiny pieces.

What conversations must these pieces of wood have heard? If only they could talk!

On the other hand, there is something very comforting about them sitting there calmly, listening, taking it all in but keeping everything secret. Meeting every one of their guests with complete presence and confidentiality. Holding moments of their guests’ lives for a short while, while bench and guest rest together before going on their separate ways.

I don’t know if other people feel this way about park benches. It is entirely possible that writing this has convinced you all that I am mad.

But along with rediscovering my favourite benches this past weekend, also brought to mind were all those people I regularly saw last year, frequenting the same benches as me, giving me hope that benches are indeed appreciated by others.

The elderly man who often appeared at 4pm from mid-spring, and without fail every Wednesday, to sit and read a book with his half-moon glasses perched on the very tip of his nose, always nestled in the right-hand crook of the same bench in the late afternoon sun.

The two women who sat with cups of tea every day, more or less, between about 2.30 and 3pm, as they waited to collect their children from school, sharing their joys and anxieties with each other as one might spill them into a diary.

The woman who walked her dog—the whippet-mix with a charmingly permanently concerned face—past that bench that is tucked right at the fork of two paths, always stopping as the dog inspects the scent trails of the day, sometimes being so thorough that it merits her owner having a prolonged sit down.

For all these people too, and no doubt countless more, these unassuming benches hold memories and a sense of place.

I am astounded at how a mere hour of faintly warming sunshine brought not just these local benches back into my view, but also this whole cast of characters, who came pouring into my mind as if released from a chest that had been caked in dust and clasped shut for several months.

I don’t think, before I sat with my coffee a few days ago on my bench atop a hill, tucked beneath a tree, that I had ever truly appreciated benches before. What would communities be without them?

Benches specifically built for appreciating sunsets.

I realise today’s piece has not focused specifically on nature, instead on human-made pieces we insert into natural places. But I find I am shocked at how much the humble bench has been overlooked from human history. We focus so much on early stone tools, on fire, bowls and drinking vessels, cave paintings and jewellery as markers of being human—but benches!

Using all of human ingenuity and intellect, technological development and skill, to create an object for complete strangers to happen upon and sit on, for free, at no benefit to the maker, purely for the gift of being outside among the rest of nature, to take in a view for pleasure and rest, strikes me as a worthy marker of being human indeed. And one that highlights just how intertwined with nature we have always felt, have always been.

We have quite literally designed and created a structure that lets us sit and drink in the natural world around us, and we leave these dotted around our towns and cities, our parks and nature reserves, for strangers to come along and enjoy for free. What a beautiful thing to have done. What a remarkable facet of being human.

For this reason, I think a diversion from nature itself to bang the gong for the humble park bench is entirely justified. I would certainly not like to live in a world with no benches, and I can’t imagine our relationship with nature would ever heal if they were taken away. In our increasingly urban lives, we have a lot to thank the park bench for—for keeping us connected with nature while expecting absolutely nothing in return.

I do hope you have a nearby bench whom you can call ‘friend’. If not, I imagine they are just around the corner, beneath some tree or other, waiting patiently to be discovered. I wish you many happy hours of nature watching together.

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