This all started with Val and Alice.

It was probably a Saturday in 2022, and I was definitely drifting through Balgay Park and cemetery with nowhere in particular to be.

I’m a sucker for a good view, and made a game out of testing each bench to see which one would become my bench – my go-to spot.

The day I found Val and Alice’s bench, on the eastern edge of the cemetery, it was hot and I was crying a bit. I had a horrible mix of sweat and tears in my eyes.

I don’t remember what had upset me, but suffice to say I was quite absorbed in my own sorrow as I sat down, so I didn’t notice the plaque straight away.

What I did notice was the view: a vista falling away from my feet, stretching all the way to Fife.

Tree branches framed a silver strip of the Tay as the sun blazed away in the bluest sky.

It was an utterly perfect spot. But it wasn’t mine.

The bench, I found, was already claimed: “In fond memory of Val (a Lochee lad) and Alice (an Aberdeen lass) Moonie”.

It was a simple dedication, but it held so much.

I could see them sitting here chatting away, trading Val’s Lochee lilt for Alice’s Doric twang.

They were young when they met, I decided. Just a lad and a lass; and they were in love.

Perhaps they first met right here, in this park. Maybe he was a groundsman; maybe she was visiting.

Or was it a rendezvous point for a forbidden teenage love affair? Were they the Romeo and Juliet of the east coast?

Most likely they were many things – children, parents, siblings, employees, friends – but maybe here, walking together on a Saturday like this one, they were just Val and Alice.

Of course, I had no idea who Val and Alice really were. But I knew they had been here, and that was something. I realised I’d stopped crying.

I visited Val and Alice’s bench many times after that, though I never managed to find out who they were.

And since that day, I have read the names on every memorial bench I’ve come across, in Dundee and beyond.

Some inscriptions are subtle: a name, a date.

Others are deeply emotional; they mark parents gone too soon, grandparents who left indelible marks, or children whose lives had barely begun.

Occasionally, the plaques have images – a bird, a flower, a musical note.

Once or twice, they’ve honoured not only a person, but their dog too, at a favourite walking spot. (Those ones always get me.)

Over time, I’ve realised there’s something quite magical about a memorial bench.

It acts like a portal into someone else’s life; the place their feet fell, the view they stopped to admire, the gap they left at their loved one’s table.

Each one is important; it holds a life story. These stories, I believe, deserve to be told.

Since becoming one of The Courier’s obituary writers, I’ve had the privilege of telling the stories of those who have passed on.

It’s a role I truly love. Every time I’m invited into the home of a grieving family, and trusted with their loved one’s story, I feel I’m being given a priceless treasure.

I laugh with them; I cry with them. I remember them all.

Each time, I leave wishing I’d known the person I’m writing about, yet feeling a bit like I do.

Now, following in the footsteps of my DC Thomson colleague Lindsay Bruce at The Press and Journal, I wish to go back and tell the stories of those whose names we might read on benches every day, or whose memories sit beside us when we stop for a rest on our travels.

But grief is intensely personal, so to tell these stories, I’m seeking out the blessing of those left behind.

If someone you love has a bench in their name, and you’d like to tell me their story, you can reach out to me at rbaird@thecourier.co.uk.

I’ll remember them.

© The Courier