It is what it is

Taking note of the clever system my fellow beekeepers had used to harvest their honey, I went out foraging for similar trays.  It was an expensive outing because I discovered I've been living near two superb Garden Centres.  I spent a fortune - on secateurs, gloves, wellies, plants, books and all sorts of accessories, before I actually found the £5 trays I was looking for.  Expensive but, dear reader, I gloried in it!  

And on the way home I found a Pick-Your-Own-Fruit Farm in Iver - how on earth did I miss that in the two and a half years I lived in Slough!?  So I came home with more plums than you could shake a tree at.  It was a glorious hour spent wandering through the orchards, and I took some gorgeous photos of bees and wasps squelching through the plums together with me.

 I drove the long way up to Paula's once more, and together we made ready for the harvest.  She bought the alcohol, I dressed up once more in my whites.  We tested the little wheelbarrow for weight by putting me in it.  Picture this if you can - two curvy ladies, a little tipsy, one pushing the other around the garden in a wheelbarrow, which eventually fell over and threw me out.  Yet another bruise to add to my magnificent tomboyish summer collection!

Then I made my way into the hive, and used Peter's great system to brush off each frame and plonk it into the empty super waiting between two potting trays used to cover the super top and bottom from the bees and wasps.  Paula took the pictures.  

The bees were magnificent; so calm and dignified in their bewildered defence of the stores they have worked so hard to accumulate through the summer.   

I've not been stung once this summer which has been hard for me in a way, because the arthritis in my feet and fingers has riddled me with pain and does not bode well for winter.  I keep saying to myself I should pick a bee and squeeze it to death on my skin, forcing a sting.  But I just haven't the heart to do that.  It seems so unfair.

Paula and I finally accumulated two and a half supers of honey and we trundled it out to my car, Miss Plum.  A curious neighbour watched us load it up.  The rich stench of honey swelled in my car for the next two days as I waited my turn to use the Honey Extraction Room at the beekeepers' association.  It hung low, hot and heavy with the smell of ripe old socks, a smell I recognise well as being pollen and nectar extracted from privet.  Not the best honey, they say.

A bee on privet

I met up with Peter on Tuesday evening and he was wonderful; a truly gracious gesture to spend two hours of an evening helping to show me how to use all the clever little innovations installed in the Extraction Room.  It made extraction easy - particularly the electric extractor.  

What a pity then, that I left the spigot open on my honey bucket!  We groaned as we looked down and saw a little pool of golden honey collecting on the newspaper spread over the floor under the bucket.  What a sad waste.

But we caught it in time, and found other buckets, and had finished extracting in 90 minutes.  At home I weighed what I had.  44lb!  

Forty-four pounds.  I had imagined more, but I was more than happy with what I had.   I tasted it.  Yes, it's honey alright.  I'm no connoisseur and find it difficult to discern the subtle differences in honey flavour but I could detect a slight sting at the back of my throat.  Perhaps I'm overly critical of my own produce.  I don't know.  I will wait for my customers to tell me ...

The slow and painstaking filtering process was done one warm evening in front of my sliding doors to the garden.  Sticky and sludgy and - of course - caused a huge row with my LSOH (long-suffering Other Half).  

It is what it is.

 Now I sit with a large container of honey and gradually, in the evenings, when the wont takes me, I bottle the honey.  It is taking me a while because other things distract me.  But slowly the harvest season is drawing to a close.  I will have honey, and already I have so many eager buyers I know I have already practically sold the lot.  It is a nice thought, and the money my hobby brings in will be most welcome.

In the meantime, I walk in the mornings across the Ickenham Marshes and collect blackberries and watch the bees working the flowers.  

I have taken many pictures of bees foraging on a wide variety of flora this summer.  

I've learned that it's easier to photograph them on the flat sea of sedum, upon which they move slowly and steadily.  It's harder to picture them on lavender, on which they have to buzz around quickly from stem to stem.  

I've loved the challenge of waiting for them to appear out of the bell-like chamber of the Himalayan Balsam, complete with that white spot of pollen daubed on their backs.  

But I miss taking photos at the Hive entrance.  Entrance - entranced; I've just noticed the word magic.  I used to spend hours entranced at the entrance; watching the bees come and go, with every little miniature drama giving an opportunity for me to focus my lens.  I miss that time out of time, those times I lay in the grass for hours and hours, completely lost and engrossed in their alien world.  I have missed, more than words can say, being out at midnight to watch the magic of the bees fanning the hive.  

I miss having bees at the bottom of my garden.

Sedum

My Bee Cake

Harvest

I pulled over at the first set of gates, still uncertain of where to find the out-apiary.  I stepped out of the car and looked around.  Just then a familiar scent came to me and I looked up over the buddleia bushes and saw a cloud of smoke wafting through the hedge.

"I'm in the right place," I thought.

I hopped in and drove to the next set of gates and, lo and behold, they were open.  I drove in, came round a corner and there was the apiary.  Only one other car stood there but as I emerged and put on my beekeeping togs, several others pulled in.  We greeted, togged up and went over to join P.

Around us, in uneven semi-circles, were several dozen hives, a small shed and a container.  P's van was pulled up nearby and he was already harvesting from the first hive at the end.

Ten of us were there eventually and it was a glorious, glorious experience helping with the harvest.  I loved the way it was efficiently organised, with empty supers set aside between two plastic trays to keep the bees out; we all helped to take out the full frames, briskly brush the bees off, and slot the rich, swelling honey frames into the waiting empty supers.  The air became filled with the hum of bees and the occasional "bugger!" muttered quietly as someone got stung.  We all built up a sweat in the heat of the humid evening as we worked.  At one stage the threatening clouds burst open and, as the rain pelted down, we all shuffled under the shed and sat together, laughing and chatting.

An hour later, 5 hives had been cleared (19 supers - what a harvest!) and we were all divesting ourselves of our suits. 

Someone said, "let's have a pint at the pub" and I wanted to cheer.  Hooray!  Hooray for a pint at the pub with the beekeepers; I've so longed for the opportunity to swop stories over a pint.

And we did. 

And more - to some extent I could feel the older, wiser, more experienced beekeepers carefully probing my knowledge, testing me - how do you harvest your honey?  What sizes?  What prices?  Heads would nod or someone would say "tut tut, dear, you've undercharged" and all along, I just kept wanting to cheer. Hooray!  Hooray!

Can you tell?  I have really missed chatting with beekeepers.

The Sun on my Skin

I may have lost the hive in my garden, but I feel like I have gained so many other things.  I feel like my interest and passion for bees has spread; I've become an evangelist among my friends and family, colleagues and community this summer.

It has become a "thing to do" on Sundays; the long drive up to Paula's, a restaurant, a hive inspection, and a glass of Prosecco in the garden. What a joy!

And the news so far is all good. First it seems that Paula's patience has paid off and the Queen has come into her own.  She is laying like a dream and the hive is brimming with brood.  So I managed to contact the suppliers of my Slovenian Queen-in-the-Royal-Mail and rearrange things - they were very nice and promised to hold one for me if I ever needed another.  

Secondly, there is no longer an issue with mould - although I suspect that's got to do with the fantastic temperatures that keep on rising.  It may reappear in autumn and winter so I won't worry about it till then.

Last week I got to Paula's too late to do the inspection before lunch.  "Oh dear" I thought, "I'll be drunk when I look in there later - not a good idea!"  But I took a chance.  I didn't drink very much at all and slipped away from the crowds in the pub early.  I slipped into the house alone and crept down the garden to take a preliminary look at the hive.  Everything looked busy and well.

I put on my new one-piece overall beekeeper suit (I'll explain more about that later) and my wellies and galumphed my way down through clouds of smoke from the smoker.   But I didn't smoke the hive.  I never do these days.  I usually pump a bit of smoke all over me, and most particularly my gloves.  It tends to keep the bees from stinging me, I've found.  Bee Aversion Therapy.

In that glorious afternoon heat I opened the hive leisurely.  It felt kind of nice to be alone although I do love sharing my bee-joys with Paula; she is so fiercely protective of them and so interested.  This felt like a little treasure, a chocolate treat not to be shared, what a funny thought.  Perhaps its simply that I didn't feel On Show, so I didn't do what I normally do - show off, and end up coming a cropper (lol).

And the bees were just lovely, lovely, lovely.  I opened the honey super and all the foundation had been drawn into honeycomb, and the honey was starting to build up.  How wonderful!  I removed the super and the Queen Excluder (remembering to put it the right way round).  I checked in the top half of the brood-and-a-half box and all looked well.  Still no sight of Her Majesty, but rice grain eggs were there, among the masses of sealed brood.

And then down into the main brood box.  I could feel the hummmm around me begin to rise gently in volume but still, they were absolutely calm, staying on the frames, hardly flying up and no confrontations at all.  I could feel my heart singing, my joy-sensors rising and the sun on my skin turned to sweat; all combining to give me a sensory endorphin rush of pleasure that brings a tear to my eye.  It's all to do with summer and sunshine and happiness - the bees have come to epitomise the sun on my skin in a way I find hard to describe.

Everywhere the hive was brimming with bees and brood, with no trace of Queen Cells or problems.  So I sealed it all up again and walked a little distance away, to strip off the suit and sit down on a bench and smile, dripping with sweat, happy.

I've joined my nearby Beekeepers' Society in addition to my beloved Enfield.  Recently I joined them on a Sunday morning and spent a pleasurable hour inspecting other - calm - bees. Well.  Thank god they were calm.  My bee jacket was so decrepit I've lost all the elastic in it and within 20 minutes, I had a bee in there.  The other beekeepers were newbies and must've been suitably distressed and hilarified to see me trying to stay calm while walking away and wildly digging around in my suit for a stray buzzing bee.  Eventually I just stripped the bloody thing off and the poor bee, probably dizzy and completely bewildered, flew away.  No sting. 

I was impressed.  Calm bees, alright!

And that's why I have a grand new, brand new all-over beesuit.   Ten sizes too large :D

Squatting

On Sunday 28 April, I packed the bee hive up and gentled wheeled it out of the garden of The Silver Cloud Lounge.  So much sadness washed over me as the bees left.  I looked up at the flowers in the old apple tree.  I will never see apples there again.  I walked past the patch of raspberry plants - never see those fruit again either.  And I believe we will be the last people to enjoy this garden - I suspect whoever buys the house will just develop it - destroy the garden and build a Granny flat over it.  Gone, all gone.  It makes my heart hurt.

So the bees went in the back of my car again.  This time we travelled halfway round London, up the A10 all the way to Cheshunt.  They will be squatting in Paula's garden for the summer.

They were carefully sited on a concrete slab near the river, by the foxes den.

I came back eight days later on Bank Holiday Monday 6th May to do my first inspection.  It felt strange to not have watched the entrance every evening, watching for activity, anything out of the ordinary, or just normal serene calming behaviour.  It felt strange doing it in someone else's garden.  Paula sat by and watched and took pictures.  I opened up the hive.   None of the signs were very good at all.  She hadn't laid anything outside the top super section of the brood-and-a-half box.  She seemed to have laid in a spotty pattern.  There were no honey stores, and way too much pollen being brought in for the number of eggs. 

The only good things I could say were these: there were signs of 3-day old brood so She was still alive.  There were many, many bees.  And they were wonderfully docile and busy.  For a while I sat with Paula and thought about my options.  I could swop the boxes round, little one at the bottom, big empty one on top, so the bees would be driven up into the higher box to get up to the feeder on top; encouraging activity and use of the big box.

"No," said Paula, "leave them for a while.  It's been a slow cold start to the spring, and they've just had their home hauled halfway across town.  Leave them for a bit."

Wise words, and I took her advice.

On Friday evening, 17 May, two weeks later, I came back to do the next inspection.  It was cold, 12 degrees, and it was late - 5pm - when I finally opened up the hive.  I was determined to be quick so I unhooked the top super and just pulled it off, determined to check the big empty brood box at the bottom first.  In doing so I forgot how the bees simply glued everything together and I ended up pulling two end frames right out of the bottom box, and they ended up on the ground out of the hive.  Damn!  More haste, less speed.  Very ungraceful.

I checked the big brood box frames and was stunned - firstly, there were lots of bees, LOTS of bees.  And secondly there was brood.  Sealed brood on four sides over two frames.  Not a lot, but there.  And in solid patterns - a good laying pattern.  The Queen seems to be coming back on form.  I squished my eyes up and peered and peered but just couldn't see any three-day rice grains anywhere.  Yet everything was looking so much better.  More brood, more honey stores, more bees.  And all still so very good-natured.  Not one sting.

I ended the inspection as ungracefully as I had begun it, by overfilling the feeder with sugar water till I could see a steady stream dribbling down out of the bottom of the hive.  Oh for god's sake, Margo!

Never mind.  Things are looking up.  I am scared to say that we may have turned the corner towards survival because things can be so uncertain.  But things are looking better, and for that I am very grateful.

Paula sent me on my way after a lovely catch-up filled with laughter, gossip and Prosecco.  I am so lucky :)

Postscript: Of course Paula raised the next awkward issue that now needs to be addressed, "so Margo, now that you know you have a solidly functional Queen in the hive, what are you going to do about the one you've ordered to replace her; the one that's coming in the post in about 3 to 4 weeks time?"  Er ... I don't know, is the honest answer!

Post-postscript:  the other interesting issue that is dogging my thoughts - I found yet another frame with mould on it; the outer one, big brood box, side closest to the bushes, the river and the coldness.  I've found more mould on my frames than ever before and the only reason I can think of is that the frames are set up the Cold Way.  I've only ever worked them the Warm Way before, and I never found mould.  Is it just an easy swop-round to convert from Cold to Warm Way, then?

Quick Update

So I checked them again on Sunday.  She has laid only in the smaller upper section of the brood-and-a-half box.  I couldn't see 3 day 'rice grain' eggs, only the slightly older brood.  Oh dear, did I kill Her in my last visit?  Why is that always my worry?

There was no brood at all in the main brood box.  Why?!  Why is She laying so little?

Oh joy, one more thing to worry about!

Grumble.

Post Script:  I really mustn't grumble; the bees have been absolutely lovely on my last two visits.  Generous, calm and non-stingy.  I fed them, and they ate.  How can I possibly complain?

Queen-sign

Last week I had the most awful experience in the hive.  I picked a warm-ish afternoon, and kitted up, Smoker on, and opened the top of the hive.  I found, as always, lots of bees in the top bit of the brood-and-a-half box.  But when I began to lift each frame out and inspect, I was horrified at the emptiness of the frames.

Each frame had been completely stripped of honey stores; there were bees hanging about aimlessly and they were grumpy.  Within minutes I'd been stung three times on my gloves and once in the groin (why, for God's sake, girls, why the groin every time!?).  There was a miniscule amount of honey left in the corners of some of the frames.  But the most disturbing of all was the emptiness of the cells in the middle. No sealed brood, no open brood, and no pollen stores at all.  Signs of a missing Queen.

I went down into the main brood box and there was even less.  And worse, the two outer frames were full of hard ivy or oil seed rape honey and utterly covered in green mould.  It was heart-wrenching.  I read subsequently that other beekeepers experience mouldy outer frames but it was still shocking to see, and I removed them and filled the empty spaces with a frame feeder and a dummy board.

I could see a huge pile of dead bees on the open mesh floor (OMF).  So I broke the entire hive down and used my hive tool to scrape all the dead off the floor.  Of course when I rebuilt the hive again and put the roof on, my heart quailed because I suddenly realised there might still have been a Queen - even though there was no Queen-sign.  And in messing around on the floor and shifting all the bits and pieces of the hive around I could easily have thrown her out by mistake, or killed her, or damaged her.

All that night I lay there, wondering and worrying.  The next day I went out and I was astonished to see a small but steady stream of bees flying, and bringing in pollen - the best sign of all that a Queen is busy laying eggs.

I had sprayed some Hive Clean in the hive and placed a sticky-backed varroa board in the slot below the OMF.  I sat and watched for a long while and thought, "the only way to know for sure is to get a frame of BIAS (brood in all stages) from someone else.  If they're queenless, they'll make a Queen Cell.  If they're Queenright they'll just be getting along with it."

I went along to the Enfield Hut the next day, and got some good advice, "just wait, Margo, just wait.  Everything is late this year, and the Queens might not have started laying yet."  I realised it was a hard ask, at this incredibly lean and vulnerable time of the year, to ask anyone for a valuable frame full of brood.  There would be hardly any out there.  And to ask from as far away as Enfield, with all the worry about disease transferral and chilled brood; it was an impossible ask.  It made me realise, especially now with a new job so far West of London, that my days with my current association are truly numbered.  To be sensible, I need a beekeeping community nearby.  I need to be sensible now, for a change.

So I went home, and I crossed my fingers; I placed an order for a Queen in May.  And - like all the other beekeepers out there in this part of the world, I held my breath, I watched the weather and I prayed.

I think Paula's on to something when she talks about "communing with the Goddesses" because, while nothing's gone right with the re-housing efforts for us, something went right for the bees this week.

The weather warmed up today, and they were flying, and foraging, and bringing in pollen.  And when I opened the roof to replace the sweet winter fondant food with a tub of warm 2:1 sugar water, I opened the roof and checked one frame and instantly saw 3-days eggs.

Do you know, this time my heart didn't leap and I didn't whoop for joy.  I found myself checking and re-checking what I saw, because I really couldn't quite believe my eyes.  3-day eggs?  Yes really, a tiny rice grain - the Queen was definitely alive and laying AFTER my vigorous clean up last week.  One egg per cell, then? Not a desperate worker female?  No.  Definitely one egg per cell.  There they were, so clear in the light, I couldn't even question my own poor vision.  A laying Queen.  I have a laying Queen!

I didn't go down to check any further, I just quietly put everything back together and closed up the hive.  Then I sat there and put my veiled head in my hands and breathed a very quiet, grateful prayer.

Thank you, God, oh thank you.

Of course I sit and ponder now whether She might only be a drone-layer.  The honeycomb in a Super is larger - so Queens tend to lay drones up there.  Perhaps I should've checked all the way through.  But d'you know what?  I'd rather leave them be for now.  They desperately need a break; a break in the weather, a break from thumping, interfering beekeepers, a break to just get on with the work.  If She's a drone layer, there are still ways to fix things.  But at least I know this generation is not doomed, and they've brought the colony safely through the winter for now.

And d'you know what else?  They were lovely today.  They stayed down.  They didn't sting.  They buzzed quietly on their way; they didn't fly up to my face defensively.  They were just so well-behaved.

My bees are back.

Spring Mystery

The last time I opened the roof - it must've been in February - when it was really cold and wet, I put some food in for the bees.  They were still there, although very quiet.  More disturbing was the state of the ceiling.  The crown board was wet, soaking wet in parts.  I closed it down and pondered why, but chose not to do anything about it because the bees had looked just fine.  Up to yesterday, the weather had been poor.  I never want to disturb bees too much in the cold weather so they have remained untouched.

The spring mystery is always, "have they survived, or haven't they?  What condition will they be in?"  And I fretted all the way through January and February, wondering how they were.  There has been a lot to distract me; a three-week holiday in Africa, followed by eye surgery and two weeks' sick leave.  The Uni course has been thoroughly enjoyable and a complete distraction.  Work has been dire and I suspect I am going to be made redundant, which is a worry.

So yesterday we went for a hike and afterwards the group came back to our house for dinner.  Guy and I haven't had friends around in over a year.  Yes, we have been hermits.  It has just been a hard year.  But yesterday we got home from the hike, and it was warm.  So warm that I simply abandoned the cooking, abandoned our guests, abandoned everything else, and hot-footed it down to the hive with that sense of urgency that comes when you never know if it's going to rain again  - in the next minute, the next hour or the next week.

My friends are good to me - they understood.

I spent about 20 minutes trying to light That Blasted Smoker before giving up.  200 matches later, one lighter and a whole lot of extremely cold and damp paper and wood; what a mess!

I covered myself up, picked up a spare crownboard, and just went in unaided.

The upper side of the crownboard looked a real mess.  Lots of little creatures running about.  Damp.  Mouldy.  Bit of food all over.  One bee.

Oh dear.

I removed all the food and lifted the lid timidly.

And my heart just leapt with joy.  Thousands of bees.  Thousands upon thousands of bees.  In fact, I'm now terrified - in the opposite direction, if you see what I mean.  They look too full - already - in a brood and a half box!

Now I'm worried they're bursting out, run out of space and ready to swarm.

Oh dear. :)

So I exchanged rooves - now I have the poly one on, so I can see down into the hive.  Removed the gunky old one, which kind of reminded me of the interior of our house after a long winterbound sojourn.  Tidied up the old bits of food and sorted out the new.  And just gently put the lid back.  I didn't want to keep things open too long as it's still not that warm, and I have seen the sadness that is Chilled Brood.

Then I noticed under the hive that a whole lot of honeycomb cappings had drifted down onto the ground in a shower of shavings.  So the bees are there; they've uncapped and eaten their honey and the cells are free for Her new brood.  They are there; they have survived, and - gods willing - I will have bees for the summer.

Now I need to start planning a Split.  One hive into two.  Soon as possible, methinks.

Bees make me happy.  Looking at bees, checking on bees, hammering boxes for bees, pondering on bees, wondering about bee secrets.  Bee mysteries.  They just make me happy.

Hooray for bees!