One of the early indicators that spring has arrived is the change in the sorts of people I see on the Dart. The foreign language students arrive: they travel in large, noisy packs, usually carrying a rucksack issued by whatever institution organised the trip. Seasoned Dart travellers keep an eye out for these groups and move to a different carriage. They take up a lot of space and the decibel level is often close to ear-splitting.
There are also people heading to Howth. They carry rucksacks too, and wear waterproof jackets and sturdy boots. Some have trekking poles. Often they are carrying so much equipment they look like they are about to climb the north face of the Eiger, rather than walk up Howth Head.
I’m generalising, but this cohort of people tend to be of retirement age. I spotted the first of the season last week, when two English women shuffled on to the packed train. Unlike the foreign language students, they were mindful of trying not to bash people with their rucksacks. There was an age gap between them; one I’m guessing was in her early 60s while the other seemed closer to 70.
A man stood and offered the older of the two women his seat. She politely declined, and then fell into conversation with her friend about what had just happened. She wasn’t offended by the offer – this kind of thing had happened to her before – but she couldn’t remember when it had started. She wondered what it was about her appearance, or the image she was projecting to the world, that caused others to think she needed a seat more than they did. Especially now: she was dressed in hiking gear. She obviously wasn’t infirm.
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Perhaps wisely, her friend didn’t express an opinion on the matter.
They weren’t criticising the man who had made the offer. Nor should they have. It probably doesn’t happen as much as it used to, but I still see people who are elderly or frail or pregnant being given seats on public transport, and it is always gratifying to witness. Old-fashioned decency hasn’t completely died out.
It’s just that in this case, the man unwittingly contributed to the series of mild insults that go along with being older.
Even what I’ve written here could contribute to it. The word “older” is vague: older than who? I’m trying to avoid using the word “old”. Few seem to want to embrace that term, and you can’t blame them: it’s become definitive, damning, close to an insult. If you’re old, it’s all over.
[ Shouldn’t we allow ourselves grow old gracefully and not be full of fear?Opens in new window ]
Instead, older-than-you people have to endure a society that would rather not think about them at all. Women, especially, become almost invisible. Ageing is not treated as a natural process any more, but almost a moral failing; something that should have been resisted. To be old in public advertises that disgraceful failure: one that the non-old would rather not be close to, just in case it’s contagious.
Not everyone acts this way. It’s well-intentioned, but the old can often be shoved into the land of cliche: we should value the elderly because they are wise (not necessarily true). They aren’t fit but “hale and hearty”. Or the worst: being described as “71 years young”. When, or if, I reach that august age and hear that phrase from someone, they can expect an unexpected meeting with the back of my arthritic hand.
[ The value of age: ‘l am still me with wisdom gained. My goal is to stay curious’Opens in new window ]
On the Dart, we passed a few stations and a seat became free. The older woman marched down to it, then waved to her younger friend, who accepted it gratefully and, I inferred, was the one who had really needed to sit down. There’s a difference between old and tired.
