In all the years I have meandered towards becoming a gardener, I have never yet had the courage to plant bulbs.
"Courage" may be a strange word to use, but it's the right one. Because bulbs require commitment. Planting bulbs means that you expect to remain in one place from autumn to spring, so that you will be there, next year, to see the flowers emerge from your efforts. Planting bulbs means you have to prepare the earth properly, and buy and plant strategically. My oddball life has never yet granted me that level of stability - until now.
Today I stepped out into my garden and the first shoots are there; green groups sprouting - how have I not noticed them until now!? They made my heart leap; a first sign of spring. No matter how cold it's predicted to get next week, this means that spring is truly on the way.
And what of my bees, I hear you ask? Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. It's not the bees you see, it's me. This weekend heralds "The Return of Crusher" in all her gory glory. Most unfortunately, it's still a case of the bees surviving in spite of me, not because of me.
Yesterday was the first day I really had at home in full daylight, to go and see how things were progressing at the hive. So off I went, squelching once more through the worm-cast. My intention was only to quickly pop off the top and check to see how much of the Baker's Fondant the lasses have eaten. Good, aren't I? Yes, well ....
I carefully peeled away all the outer thinsulate from around the hive. I took off the Hive Lid. Oh! I'd forgotten that I'd made a quilt for inside the hive - the two big "cushions" of polystyrene pieces inside folded-up thinsulate. I removed them gently. And what did I find underneath; why, a whole big block of untouched Baker's Fondant.
There was nothing guaranteed to unnerve me more than this particular sight. You can hear my thoughts out loud, can't you - "why haven't they touched it? Did I not open a big enough hole? Are they all dead?"
I stretched my hand out and carefully raised the 4 kilogram-weight of fondant. Out boiled about a hundred infuriated bees, wafted upward on a wave of pungent wildflower honey scent. So shocked was I - what did I do? Why, dropped it of course. Right on top of the bees. Crushed about two dozen of the poor girls.
Oh Margo! Will I NEVER learn to think first, act later?!
I rushed off to put on my bee suit, and hared down to the hive again with a Bee Brush. I raised the fondant again and tried to brush all the bees away. A hundred infuriated bees roared up around me; I carefully replaced the fondant and sliced a few more holes in the clingfilm surrounding it.
Then I replaced the quilts, and closed up the Lid.
I'd noticed some dead bees lying on the crownboard inside. There were dead bees, too, just outside the entrance. Presumably these are the inevitable casualties of winter and longevity. I also saw a beautiful black cat later that day, slinking quietly up to the hive entrance to satisfy her curiousity. I "whisht" her away; out of concern for both her and the poor, bothered bees.
I feel devastated about crushing so many bees, but also heartened with joy that they are so resilient a colony that they have survived winter so far, so long, and so well. They must have huge stores of honey saved up, to be surviving this well this far without Fondant. It fills me with joy, and hope. And trepidation of course, for what is clearly going to be a busy honey-filled summer.
Today we had our first gathering of New Beekeepers. We all crammed into my living room for tea and biscuits (my cheesecake was a disaster - never to be mentioned in polite company again). There were 10 of us, literally burning for knowledge, help, support, information, guidance, mentorship and a lifetime of experience (Right Now; Right This Minute, If You Please!). We had 4 mentors with us; thank heavens for their patience, forbearance and gently teasing practicality.
Out of the 10, 4 of us have hives. Each one has a wealth of stories to tell, adventures shared, mysteries unravelled. All of us are nervous for the remainder of the journey through the unfinished cycle of the first 12 months. And the others; ready to begin the journey, sharing our hives if need be.
Now, at least, we have each other.
A new generation of beekeepers; new buddies; new buds of knowledge.
I can hardly wait to get started ...
