Seduction, intimidation, patience

On Sunday I gave in to temptation. Seduced by thoughts of the Honey Show; of the idea of honey, dreamed-of for so long. Tempted by the "what if" I donned my suit, mixed up a tiny batch of white sugar in warm water and tiptoed down to the hive.

I smoked the hive box and quietly removed the roof and crownboard. I looked in to the super and saw no progress at all, beyond that little bit of foundation built up such a while ago on the middle frame. There were at least a thousand bees in the super yet again, propolising arbitrary corners or sitting quietly on frames without moving. I carefully removed the super and had to work really firmly to gently remove the queen excluder; the ladies have glued everything together very carefully.

Once the brood box was open to view, I found myself intensely intimidated by the sheer weight of bee numbers in there. Thousands upon thousands of bees gathered on the frames; I lifted one or two without shaking bees off and they layered onto every surface, buzzing gently. I managed to glimpse a few cells filled with fat white larvae. I did not even bother looking for 3-day early-stage eggs.

The bees have still not touched Frame 1 at all; it remains completely bare on both sides.

I didn't try to explore further. I simply replaced the queen excluder and carefully went to work on the super. I dabbed my gloved fingers into the sugar water and, holding up Frame 5, swept a thin layer across the empty, untouched side. I swept more layers of sugar water on the four central frames, and then replaced them all. I'm doing this in the hopes that it might tempt the bees to lick the sweet-flavoured surface and, in doing so, stimulate them to start actively working on the foundation surface, drawing out comb and making it ready for honey. I've read somewhere that this is a trick that might work to activate a honey flow ...

Closing up the hive, I spent some time once again just watching the bees' activities at the hive entrance. There are still bees flying in with pollen baskets fully loaded. They have been very, very active these last 10 days. Guy has moved our bird bath closer to the hive, and they seem to appreciate this position more. I've loaded the bird bath with dried grass so that they can land on to drink without the risk of drowning, and I've watched them do it. It works for them.

More than this, I guess I cannot do. There are only 10 days left to our local Association's Honey Show, and if the bees do not offer honey in time for this, I'm resigned to the fact that it wasn't meant to be.

I mustn't forget to keep putting the Sticky-Back Plastic boards down to monitor varroa over the next few weeks.

And I must remember to enjoy the end of the summer; the bees have only a few weeks left before bedding down for winter. And I want them to survive for me, for next year.

I mustn't forget to be patient ...

Mystified ...

.... both me and the bees. I did a very brief check on them on Sunday. I did hop into my suit, but didn't use the smoker.

I popped the lid off and looked into the Super, where about a thousand bees seem to be wandering around, gazing in mystification at the space, or propolising arbitrary corners, while not continuing to draw out the half-drawn out foundation on the central frame.

Meanwhile in the brood box, I only really checked Frame 1, which remains - mystifyingly - untouched.

I must admit to being completely bee-fuzzled.

Come on, loyal readers, do you want to make suggestions or offer advice? You can post comments below ...

Learning from Rhubarbs

I have come late to the joys of the outdoors, of gardening and of keeping bees. I can't presume to be an expert on these topics. But there are some simple lessons I've learned in my few years of tending gardens, which lead me to wonder if these things cannot also be true of beekeeping.

When I first came to this house in Finchley, I walked out into the garden and noticed a very sad, bedraggled rhubarb plant (although I didn't know then that it was a rhubarb). All I saw was a plant, a living thing, in distress. It consisted of only two leaves which lay half-dead on the ground. It was June, and I wondered why - in the height of summer - this plant should be suffering so.

Then I looked carefully at the ground. And I realised it was as dry as a bone. All it needed was some water.

Four years later, our rhubarb is sometimes known as "The Sacred Cow" and sometimes just as "The Monster". None of us who've lived in this house and know its history, and the story of Nigel - so distressed and damaged, but who loved this house and planted that rhubarb and died tragically in a car accident - none of us, even those who never met him, will ever harm that plant. We love that rhubarb. And we know that it doesn't need the life-giving drink of water quite so much now, as it did the day I first encountered it. It survives, it flourishes and this year, its harvest has spread to our neighbours for the first time ever, in a little ritual that has led to bonding, community and - blow me down - an invitation to my first ever Christening (of my neighbour's baby, you twits, not of me!).

Through the years, I've watched the rhubarb grow incrementally. Over the seasons, one deeply foul and irritating predator has swept through our garden and near-demolished that rhubarb. The hated, the disgusting - SLUG. Well do I remember "Basil's Revenge" when Tina, our fierce red-haired Scottish housemate, reacted in fury to the demolition of our favoured little basil plant by a horde of slugs. Fondly, I recall how she researched every means known to man to destroy the slugs. We spoke wistfully of creating Slug Guns, cannon-like weapons in which we'd hurl piles of slugs and shoot off, over the leylandia trees, into the loud, crass hordes of railway men clanking away on the Tube lines at 3am of a weeknight.

For several seasons, Tina threw down the direst chemicals in her search for a Slug-Devastator. Slowly she came round to a more organic mindset, and looked for less cruel, more natural ways to murder en masse. She created little pools of beer traps, and in the mornings we would find squads of drunken drowned slugs squashed into those pools. Yeeuurrrgh, well do I remember that lot! She'd bucket hundreds of 'em and freeze 'em. We never ever really got to the bottom of how to rid the planet of slugs, although - man - did we try!

But eventually, one day, Tina moved away. Since she left, I've not had the time or the inclination (or the heart) I once had to garden. I miss chatting with her out on the lawn, as we wait for the robins to come visit us at the sound of our voices, directing us imperiously to feed them and their progeny. So the garden has been left to grow a little wilder, a little looser and freer and less suburban. This has benefitted the bees, I know.

But I have also noticed something else. I've looked closely at how my pretty little flowers emerge from their green bases, only to have the tenderest prettiest coloured tips munched down by the Inglourious Basterd Sluggards. And then I've watched again, as the pretty little flowers grow back. And this time - remain untouched.

Why is that?! What have the flowers done to adapt sufficiently to become resilient to slugs? Or is the season of slugs gone past?

One reason, I surmise, is that I have done nothing. I've not put a pellet or a beertrap down in - ohhh - at least a year. And my plants seem to be becoming Slug Resistant.

Which leads me to muse on the nature of nature itself. Is this how nature works? Allow it to be attacked; don't intervene to protect, nurture and ultimately tenderise the plant to a point where it can no longer protect itself?

But isn't that the way of all life, methinks.

And so to bees. I've been reading all about varroa. Those dastardly little creatures that have spread so voraciously worldwide, all due to the intervention of man, to such a point that they are in every beehive in Britain, almost, where two human generations ago, beekeepers knew nothing of such a creature.

Says Philip Chandler, in the paper on Sustainable Beekeeping "We artificially maintain strains of bee that are ill-equipped to deal with infections or infestations, despite their ancestors having done so, unaided, for at least 100 million years."

And I believe he's right. He is RIGHT.

And what that means is, we need to let them be. We need to let the bees fight their own fight against varroa. Perhaps we need to take that heart-breakingly tough decision NOT to medicate against varroa, but, if necessary, allow a hive to die. Sacrifice it in the name of generations that can sustain themselves and their own varroa-resistant future. (To do that, we have to limit our own naturally greedy instincts for commerce, sacrifice the size of the honey crop, limit the returns we try to glean from bees).

And limit our intervention only to the most minimal, the least disruptive of ways. From the rhubarb, I learned to water a little, but leave it to fight its own battle against the predators. So when I read about Drone brood excision or Queen-Arrest ways of manipulating hives, or even Powdered Sugar to manipulate new behaviours into bees, my heart wrenches. It just doesn't feel right!

But I cannot profess to be an expert; I can only trust my instinct. At the very beginning of my beekeeping venture I was tempted to go for a Top Bar hive; the more natural way of keeping a beehive, in which the bees must build their own comb, right from scratch. I was tempted to limit my honey harvest to almost nothing, in the interest of simply hosting a bee hive. But I took a strategic decision to learn the classic modern beekeeping style first, because I truly know nothing of the craft as yet. And I'll see that strategy through.

But while I learn, I will keep pondering and musing, and theorising ...

Stationery shopping for bees

On Tuesday evening, Guy and I were out and about in the garden. I'd received a cryptic email from my Beekeeping Association about "keeping to Middlesex guidelines" for the end-of-summer parasite inspections of our bees. Quite frankly, I thought those Middlesex guidelines were all about cricket, but then I don't know much about that particular craft either ...

I had spent a bemusing afternoon in Ryman's Stationers. Now, those of you who have a Stationery Fetish like me (you know who you are) would've loved this expedition, considering what the requirements were. The objective was originally to buy double-sided tape, but you know what it's like - you get into a stationery shop and you're surrounded by great new ideas and creative thoughts inundating you on how much better THIS sticky tape or THAT sticky film stuff would be to achieve what it is we're trying to do here.

Which is essentially to cover my Varroa Board with some or other very sticky substance, then slide the board into the tray underneath the open mesh floor of the hive, and leave it there before retrieving it 24 hours later, to count the varroa mites stuck to the surface. Depending on how many mites are trapped there, you make your decision about whether to treat the hive against varroa, or leave it for now.

So eventually I emerged from Ryman's, laden with double-sided tape, parcel tape (dunno why, but it just looked useful and in the end, it was), clear "Duck" tape (VERY sticky stuff!) and lordy-lordy - school book clear sticky film sheets. The Very Thing!

That night, as me and my usual kak-handedness tried to get this sticky stuff stuck onto the varroa board without taking me with it, Guy had to hold himself back, his frustration at my total lack of practicality steaming at the seams. Eventually he leapt in and said "look here, let me show you!"

"Oi!" yelled I, snatching it all back again "this is MY project! Go and .. oh, go and play in the traffic on your bike, or something!" He flounced off, deeply offended that I didn't want his help. Immediately I felt guilty, knowing that we've had such a great time up to now with this - our joint project.

Really, we're like a pair of 6-year olds, we are.

So when he got back from his bike ride, still a bit huffy, I hugged him and hauled him outside with me. I decided to suit up to slide the sticky board in under the hive; but didn't bother smoking the hive or anything. Temptation got the better of me, as I couldn't help popping the top of the super off. By Jove! There were thousands of bees in there. Do you think; do you possibly think!?!?! Maybe, just maybe, there'll be a honey harvest for me this year? It's been such an On-Again, Off-Again thing; I hardly know what to think anymore.

So I popped the top back on, and carefully slid the Varroa-Catching Sticky Tray into its slot under the hive. Guy's advice to "edge the sides with parcel tape, so the sides are not sticky and can slide in place better" was spot on. Although I did have a bloody good laugh when I tried to bite the end of the parcel tape off, and realised I couldn't because I had my bee suit veil on. It was a bit of a wedge and a push but the bees were marvellous and hardly even noticed my presence.

So much so that afterwards I sat out under the trees, facing the hive entrance and just watched them for a while. After long, long minutes watching lots of activity, it slowly dawned on me that the entrance was particularly crowded. Bees were fighting each other to gain entrance to the hive. Crowds and crowds were pushing and shoving in and out of the little hole slotted in the centre of the mouse guard. And I wondered again, as I have several times this summer, if I should be leaving that in? Or taking it out? Shouldn't they have more access, and isn't the mouseguard only for winter?

After a few minutes of deliberation, I leaned forward and gently slipped the mouseguard out, leaving a wide new access port directly across the bottom of the hive, a bit like a Star Wars ship docking bay. I watched again for a while and marvelled at the precision of the bees' landing right on target for the old entrance, the edges of which have become worn and darker from the effects of thousands of bees' passage in and out of the hive. I watched as the bees explored the new dimensions of the entrance. And finally I slipped away, leaving them to the end of their working day, and some well-earned rest.

Last night I had a rather riotous night out with the girls after an incredibly tough day at work, so it was only this evening that I could wander down, somewhat hungover, to the hive to follow up on things.

Once again I could approach the hive with no aggression from the bees at all. I slid the tray out, and gazed at the board. Of course, I couldn't see a thing without my glasses. Nowadays, not only do I have contact lenses, I have to wear reading glasses over them; sunglasses for constant protection in the light, and my optician keeps hounding me to remove my contacts more often and wear my other specs too. So after some fumbling to find the right pair, I popped on the reading glasses and yelled to Guy for his microscope.

"Microscope!? Microscope!?" he yelled back through the doorway to the bedroom, "I don't have a microscope! I wish I did though! Don't you mean a magnifying glass?" Well, of course I did. He has this dinky magnifying glass with two pincer arms which looks like a cute little Michelin man ...


So. On with the reading glasses, gaze through the magnifying glass, trying not to go cross-eyed or give in to the temptation to be violently ill, bring out the reference books, and let's see what all this stuff is on the Varroa-Catching Sticky Stuff.

Shame, you know, when I'd pulled the board out, there were two very shattered looking bees stuck to it also. I managed to brush them off gently - I wonder if they survived. All the rest on the board is debris - it looks like honey-coloured bits of fluff, traces of comb, honey, drips of dark stuff, such a weird range of stuff. And there, in amongst all the honey-coloured material, there I spotted the varroa.

It's hard to be sure, but I gazed and gazed, cross-checked against the books, picked them up and looked closer, took photos and consulted Guy. Eventually we decided that we'd gathered 5 varroa mites in the course of the last 48 hours - not enough to have to take any Varroa Control measures (ie chemical sweep - well, that's a whole nother story).

I stickily used some duct tape to create another Varroa-Catching Sticky trap - cutting myself with a Stanley knife in the process (don't ask), Guy plastering me up, and me getting myself so stuck in everything it reminded me of the time I was a nanny and mixed up some fun project with the girls involving chocolate, honey and marshmallows and got so goooey I had doubts I'd ever get free of the stuff ...

I went down to the hive in the evening light, and slid the sticky board back in place. I checked the entrance, and the last few bees flew in from the gathering gloom. They look happy. As I am.

I have phoned and offered to volunteer for the Honey Show. I will be away at Creamfields on the August Bank Holiday so, sadly, I will miss the Enfield Country Autumn Show but I will be at the Enfield Honey Show on the first weekend in September, and am looking forward to it more than I expected.

It's a funny thing to say, but these bees have given me a world of joy away from the Pit of the Corporate Piranhas. They balance so many elements of innocence, of hope for Guy, of pleasure in the summer and the outdoors; they offer me a chance to try out my silly impractical hands in a craft that will hopefully help me become more practical, and they still may give me the one thing I promised my father before he died in May - "Jack's Honey".

Here's hoping!

A varroa mite in the centre of honey-coloured debris
(left click on the pic to enlarge it for a close-up look)

Honey is Heavy!

It was such a pleasure to get home from the steambath that is London at the moment; hot, humid, sticky, unbearable London. Sat in the garden with Guy and had a lovely supper with a glass of red wine. I think it was a mistake though, to check on the bees after a glass of wine. I was just a tad squiffy, and the ladies were less than impressed ...

Yeeeouch; two stings through my trousers onto my legs!

I had wondered what sort of progress was happening in the Super; after seeing traces of foundation being drawn out by the bees last time, I had hopes of a little honey harvest. But this time I was disappointed - there has been no change at all. No more drawn-out honeycomb, no honey at all. Aah well!

Onto the brood box, and still - no change on Frame 1. Both sides remain pristine and untouched. They just do not like this frame. I am too new and inexperienced yet to even begin to hazard a guess why. All of the rest of the frames have lots of activity going on; lots and lots of capped brood, lots and lots of fat juicy white larvae waiting for their caps. And some trace of small new rice grain eggs to prove the Queen's presence, alive and well and active, in the hive up to three days ago. But not a lot.

And Frame 10 Side B is simply honey all over; it is the heaviest frame to pick up. Who would've guessed it - honey is heavy!

Some interesting things that I saw during this visit:

• On one frame, the bees had constructed what looked like a cavern; it almost felt like they were hiding something from view. Again - this is not the first time I have felt this way ...
  
  
• On another frame, some capped drone cells; clearly domed shapes protuding higher than the normal female worker bee capped cells
  
  
• The delight of seeing several female worker bees being born - breaking the cap and carefully and slowly emerging from their cells
  
  
• Strange large droplets of liquid - could it be rain? could it be "sweat" from the heat of the carefully maintained temperature of 35 deg C? Or was it merely nectar or honey?
  
  
• Several small supercedure cells in various places; wonder if I'm meant to do anything at all with these ...

The bees were angry at being disturbed. And it was perhaps too late in the day to be visiting, at 7pm. But Guy was wonderful - brave enough to get close and take a picture of each and every single frame, so that I could scrutinise details close up on the computer screen later that evening.

With stings burning on my legs, I closed up the hive again and retreated to the bedroom to have my wounds checked on, accompanied by some gentle teasing and a great deal of ribald laughter.

This beekeeping can be a lot of fun!


A perfect frame - capped female worker brood in the centre surrounded by loads of honey supplies around the rim










Frame 10 Side B - just tons and tons of honey












What are the ladies hiding in that little cave?













See the male drone cells? Just left of centre ...















See the female worker bees being born - two of them breaking out of their cells on the right of this picture?















Here too - a female worker bee emerges from her cell on the left of this picture