Temper, temper!

 

The way we talk about our bees must sound really strange to you.  "The bees were so docile".  "They're so good-tempered; well-behaved, quiet, such a good temperament!"  "Well-bred" is another term we use.

 

How odd, you think, you who do not work with bees.  Bees!?  Wild and fierce, they swarm across the countryside, aggressively looking for someone to sting!  Right?  Right?  Wrong!

 

Bees are wonderfully good-natured creatures.  They won't bother you, if you don't bother them.  Bees spend all their individual lives submerged in serving the needs of the collective.  They work endlessly for the survival of the entire colony.  They use precisely calculated geo-location to work their way back home to the hive and it's only if you happen to get in the way, or try to hurt them - usually by accident - that they will sting you.  They don't want to sting you; if they sting a human they die.  They don't want to die, anymore than you or I do.

 

And contrary to all the urban legends, and ridiculous horror movies, they are at their least aggressive when they swarm.  Swarming is a natural way for a single colony to reproduce and become two.  A group take off with the Old Queen when the Virgin Queens are being born.  Before they take off, they scout the surroundings, and everyone fills their stomachs with honey for the dangerous journey ahead.  So they are full - like you feel after a big meaty Sunday lunch - "burp".  They are focused on sticking together and surviving.  So there have been beekeepers who can even put their bare hands right into a swarm - and not get stung.  (Don't try this at home, folks!)  Panos has told me it feels warm, and ticklish, and magical, and he didn't get stung.  I believe him.

 

But more than this, bees have been bred by human beekeepers, generation after generation, season after season, to be docile.  The most structured breeding program to this end began with a monk called Brother Adam, at Buckfast Abbey at the beginning of the 20th century.  His strategy was simple.  If he worked at a hive, and got stung - just once - he would kill the Queen and replace her.  The temperament of the bees spreads from the pheromones of the Queen, licked by the bees to locate and bond with her.  They in turn lick other bees, and on and on the temperament spreads.  In the simplest terms, Brother Adam thought, if I control the Queen and her temperament, eventually the bees will "get it".  If you sting me, bees, I will kill your Queen, place your hive at risk, and replace her. 

 

And over generations, so they learned and evolved.  Urban beekeepers are able to keep beehives in suburban gardens because bees have become gentler by nature. Not every beekeeper agrees with this strategy because, after all, stinging is a naturally-occurring defensive tactic they use to protect themselves and the colony.  We humans are conspiring to remove that natural instinct.  We humans - we play a dangerous game with the balance of nature!

 

So yesterday a group of 8 beekeepers could easily walk among 20 hives, each filled to bursting with a colony at its summer peak of 50,000 bees.  We could walk among them without fear of being stung.  I didn't get stung once.  I haven't been stung once, in the last 3 years.  My bees are true aristocrats, bred in the Midlands, working under the Green/Alpha Queen - who is a queen of queens.  They are always quiet, good-natured, co-operative.  They might buzz around me worriedly while I'm in there, manipulating the frames or removing some of their hard-won efforts in honey, but they are really lovely bees.  Now you understand what we mean when we talk about "good-natured bees".

 

Last night, however, we encountered that fabulous phenomenon - The Feisty Bee Hive.  Hive No 8 has been affectionately (or perhaps not) labelled "Bomber Command".  Oh my word, how we ran, and then - how we laughed!

 

We first noticed what was happening when Caroline - cool, calm, level-headed Caroline - made a comment and we heard a faint note of hysteria in her voice.  "Blow me down," she said, "they're buggers tonight," or something to that effect.  A couple of heads turned from where we were working at Hive No 5.  Then we noticed Tom walking briskly away and were astonished to see him disappear into the darkness of the shed.  What?! 

 

Then we heard the buzzing ...

 

Then we were all overtaken by the roar of fifty thousand extremely pissed-off bees.  Oh my god, I'm laughing as I write this. 

 

There were beekeepers diving into hedges; two beekeepers ran right out of the apiary and took refuge - in the road.  The rest of us backed carefully away, all the while being followed by a halo of furiously grumpy buzzing bees whizzing around our heads.  A number of us got stung - not badly - but you can still feel it through the bee suit.  Perhaps I'm making it sound more dramatic than it really was?  No, no, they really were like Bomber Command last night. 

 

Definitely part of the learning curve.  You have got to respect the bees.  They may be lovely, they may be quiet - most times.  But every now and then, they will make a point of reminding you of what they really are - not just livestock to be harvested, but wild creatures who have succeeded and thrived in nature despite every obstacle put in their way by man and beast.

 

How I do love them!

 

 

 

Showing my new self to me

I've had such a crisis of confidence in myself as a beekeeper.  It has confused everybody - Tom, Peter, the Association, and me.  Why do I have so little faith in my own abilities?  Why do I always feel awkward asking for help?  Why can't I just accept it when people give me help and gifts, unasked, just because they want to? 

I have spent the past couple of years working with my bees by myself and it has been lovely.  I have loved every solitary, quiet moment alone with them.  But I've always known that beekeeping can't really be done alone.  You need people; you need other beeks to exchange knowledge, tools, bees and equipment - you need it to help the bees survive.

I have no problem with bees;  it seems that all my difficulties stem from my problem with people.  I'm so tangled up in my own insecurities, my mistrust of people's intentions, my defensiveness and my desperate need to be self-reliant, my discomfort in asking for help and appearing vulnerable and incompetent. 

So now I am out in the world again, no longer a lone beek.  I am surrounded by other beeks - experts, novices and amateurs like me.  I always knew it would be a difficult transition.  I never realised quite how revealing it would be - showing my new self to me - how I have changed in the past difficult years.  I never realised how difficult I am finding it to get on with other people, to socialise, mingle and share.  I have become more solitary than ever, more irritable, more shy, more ...  Well, perhaps it's more a case that I am becoming more me - the same as I ever was, just less hidden, more revealed.

It seems my bees have more to teach me than mere beekeeping.  As always, I am grateful for the sense of magic and revelation that they offer me.