Readers who wonder about the possibility of appearing in your birthdays column (Letters, June 1) should be warned that it is an honor that can be taken away from them. After several decades of inclusion, for two years I have searched in vain on June 5 how old I am. Without the Times and the Telegraph, which uphold the faith, I should have concluded that I was dead. I’m not, actually. I am 77 years old.
Regarding your report (UK ranked last in Europe for bathing water quality in 2020, June 1), the Natural Resources Wales website says all sites in Wales are safe for swimming, but The Environment Agency advises against bathing at nine sites in England. Is this a new version “for Wales, see England”, but now “for the United Kingdom, see England”?
Why does an Irishman living in Paris have to travel to Folkestone to marry his fiancée, also resident in France, so that she can claim the inheritance of her estate (Samuel Beckett’s secret wedding in Folkestone inspires the 60 years festival later, June 2)?
Your article on the shepherd’s huts (June 2) mentions one with “hand-forged cast iron wheels.” I would be interested to see the manufacture of these oxymoron wheels.
Rolleston on Dove, Staffordshire
How to tell if you are old: fall (Letters, June 4). If people are laughing you are young, if people are panicking you are old.