Apis Mellifera Dramatica

 

"Oh," said V, "don't worry - we've all been badly stung these last few weeks!"  Bit of a relief really, considering.  So it's not just me then.  The last few weeks have been eventful.

 

Firstly, I've been getting used to working the bees with Tom and Liz.  They have been so nice, hosting my bees in their garden.  We have worked our bees together and the process has been a gradual one of getting to know each other, settling in to our different styles of beekeeping, accommodating each other's preferences and negotiating ways of working together.  It has felt like a tentative, careful process of getting to know one another, and becoming friends. 

 

The funniest instance was a couple of weeks ago; Friday night.  Now, Friday night is usually my great de-stressing time.  I leave work and I can feel stress leaving my body and a huge wave of endorphins, happiness and weariness washing over me.  This can be somewhat dangerous.  

 

The three of us decamped to the garden with our beesuits.  "Why don't we just have one glass of wine before we get going," was the mutual agreement.  Then Tom poured the wine.  Hahahahaha!  "Look," he said, proudly waving the (first) empty bottle, "if you pour it just right, you can get three full glasses out of an entire bottle!"  Oh dear.  Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.   I remember, much muu-uuuu-uuch later, waving my arms at the sky, going, "look! look! you can see meteors!"  Oh dearie me!  Not much beekeeping done that night, then. 

 

On other evenings though, we have hoicked on our suits, loaded up the gear and strolled down through their glorious orchard, down to where they've arranged the wooden chairs and table, down to where the hives are lined up together.  "Keep 'em straight," mutters Tom.  "No, no," say I, "keep 'em a bit off-kilter."  And so we go, learning to rub along together.  As we chat quietly, behind the hedge where the narrow boats moor, Susie the parakeet starts up.  She can hear us from her perch on the boat and she whistles and chirrups, enjoying the natter, part of the company.

 

But the last couple of times at the hives have been stressful.  Tom's bees are quiet and happy; mine are fierce and furious. The way they come out to sting me feels almost as if they are tortured by some misery I cannot see.  I wish I could help them.  There are various possible reasons but I feel it is too late in the season to make major changes.  If I do, I lessen their chances for survival through the winter.

 

It could be that they have two Queens in there.  One is the old Green Alpha Queen, the one we have been so loathe to destroy.  The bees are determined that she is old and failing and they need a new one, and who am I to question their age-old wisdom?  So there is a new Queen in there too - they have been indicating a need for supercedure and so it's in place now.  As far as we can tell at least one of the Queens is laying.  But we don't spend a lot of time in there.  The last time they launched themselves at me in waves so furious, I nearly threw myself in the canal.  I've never been scared by bees before but I was, that time.

 

So I am grateful to my friend C for a different kind of beekeeping experience yesterday.  I'd been for a wonderfully energising early morning gym session and I decided to drop in at the country park, where I used to live, to do some blackberrying.  When I lived there I found the best blackberries ever - so good you could freeze 'em and keep them through winter.  So I wandered off,  plastic packet in hand, blissfully happy.  The blackberry harvest has been odd this year.  Some ripened early, some ripened late and some hasn't even started yet.  Most odd.  Never mind, it was lovely to be back and I picked a whole lot and then meandered on to take photos of bees pollinating the Himalayan Balsam. 

 

It's a terribly invasive weed in this country, most garden-wise folk hate it.  Unfortunately for them, the bees absolutely love it!  There's nothing so lovely as seeing the bees fly in with that distinctive big white spot on their backs, the marking of the Himalayan Balsam pollen striped on them, a perfect process of pollination alive and happening right in front of your eyes.  I snapped away; I could've still been there if I hadn't run into C.

 

"I don't suppose ..." he said.  "It just so happens ..." I said, "I've got my beesuit in the car!"  And we proceeded to spend four glorious sweaty, grimy, grubby hours with his bees.  He's a bit of a renegade (sorry C!) but I was fascinated by his practice, his theories, and his vision of what beekeeping could be.  It matches with mine in so many ways and it infuriates other, more traditional viewpoints in so many ways.  

 

I experienced that afternoon on so many different levels.  First off, I just loved the bees.  They were quiet and happy and busy, not fierce and agonised and tortured.  Then, I enjoyed a different kind of beekeeping experience - one that involved many hives and many different objectives other than my own.  And also, I was fascinated by the peripheral creatures I found - the wasps, the hornets, the butterflies.  I took some grand photos, not technically perfect, but interesting nonetheless.  

 

But above all, I was interested in how this operation fits into beekeeping at a global level. C is something new in beekeeping, a phenomenon that many traditional beekeepers fear - he is trying to find a new way, a better way.  I like that about him.

And yet, there we are, doing different things, travelling in different directions and having such a powerful, potent impact on the bees.  As you probably know by now, my belief is that if all beekeepers everywhere could work in a unified manner, all practising in the same way, working to the same goal, we would have a more beneficial effect on the bees.   It is not possible; we are human after all.  It makes me sad.   I really wish humans could wake up to the terribly detrimental effect we have on all things natural on this planet, in time to stop it and save the planet, but I do not hold out much hope.  We are greedy, venal things - the greatest virus the universe has ever created.

 

But I have always been most fascinated with the stories we have to tell, no less the beekeepers.  Each one has a story, many stories.  Sometimes I feel like my purpose in life is to be the bard, the one who tells the stories of our times - the izibongo.   If I tell the stories well enough, they might help to change things.

 

If this is the only reason I exist, I am happy; I feel I have found my purpose. 

And that is enough, isn't it?