Tales of the unexpected

This week: a presidential encounter; cared for Kolkata; a humbling time in Myanmar; and a return to Irish roots

en route. Until I awoke and found myself in a hospital in Kolkata having tripped and cracked my head on a stone.

I was looked after so well. The consultant made a daily ward visit with his staff. My main concern was to get my plane home with the rest of the group.

One morning I decided to be bold and told the consultant how good looking he was – much to the amusement of his entourage. I got the discharge I wanted!

At home, unpacking, I found a length of material – bought and used as a stretcher until the ambulance arrived in the village where I had fallen – with a handwritten note from the village doctor saying I must be in hospital. BRENDA WALMSLEY

Beeline for Slovenia

Your article on honey (“There’s a real buzz about Slovenia”, May 20) typifies the mixture of history and practical modernity that is Slovenia today. The Radovljica Museum of Apiculture is a delight, the painted beehive panels were crafted over several hundred years and reflect the rural folklore.

The Bee Museum is in the 600-year-old Baroque Mansion, which also contains the esteemed Music School. It is a delight to see knots of young people, carrying various shaped instruments, gathering outside followed soon after by glorious music flowing down the street. ROGER FARRELL

Mandalay tips

Fionnuala McHugh’s piece about sailing down the Irrawaddy (“I left my heart on the boat to Mandalay”, May 13) brought back fond memories of the trip my wife and I took to Burma in the late Nineties. We took a rickshaw across the city to Mandalay Fort, agreeing the price with the sinewy old driver and went off in the sultry August heat. Once we got to the fort and paid our driver, we added a small tip as a token of our appreciation. The driver counted out the tattered banknotes and when he realised we had given him too much, he wouldn’t accept it, even though he was penniless. He said we’d agreed a price and that was that. We were humbled by his sense of pride and touched by his sheer decency – and I still get a lump in my throat when I tell the story of that wizened old rickshaw driver giving me my tip back. MARTIN NUTTALL