Winter's End

Everyone is reporting losses.  

We gather at the Beekeepers' Hut and make tea.  Someone spills a mug and I take some time to wash up all the cutlery, listening to the gossip in the background.  Guy always used to say we were like a bunch of high country farmers in New Zealand, down in town for the first visit after the snows had gone; talking nineteen to the dozen.  And so we were today; a huge group crowding into the little space, and you could barely hear yourself think above the chatter.

"Alan's lost twenty out of forty hives," said someone.

"I lost two, but four have come through alright," says another.

This is always the way at the end of winter, the beginning of spring.  We gather to count our blessings and mourn our losses.

Tom and I headed down to his orchard after tea, hitched on our suits and went to look at our own hives, concerned by so many devastating losses this year.  It has been an extraordinarily mild but wet winter and the bees have suffered for it.  In the winter warmth the bees have come out to forage and found nothing flowering, and then been trapped without the energy to return home.   Or some have been caught by Nosema, that dreadful tummy bug that forces such indignities on our bees - something that can't be cured and must be endured, and often weakens them to such an extent that the hive dies before the end of winter.

Tom approached in his usual inimitable fashion; organised and practical, with a clear plan of action.  I as always tripped over my suit, squelched a shoe into dog poop, left all my tools behind and couldn't keep my hair out of my eyes.  Never a dull moment but oh, what a pleasure to come to our hives and see only good news.  All of our hives have survived the winter.  100% survival!  

Tom's Mum's hive came first and looked absolutely perfect inside.  Honey, eggs, larvae, sealed brood and lordy, lordy - a Blue Queen.  Then on to Tom's hive; the central one, the little one, the weak one.  The bees must've been worried too because they had literally stuffed 6 frames full of sugar.  What a laugh, I've never seen anything like that before.  But there too we saw brood, food and another glorious Blue Queen.

Now on to Margo's hive.  Astonishing - truly astonishing.  This structure is big - I left it at a brood and a half.  And it's bursting at the seams with bees, thousands upon thousands upon thousands of bees.  It's only the beginning of April.  If I'm not careful we could have a disaster on our hands - there are just too many bees for the box already.  Didn't see my own Blue Queen but there were eggs and larvae everywhere, and signs that already one generation has been bred and born and a second is on its way.  

We whooped and hollered our way through this delightful inspection then we sat down to just watch the bees for a while, and talk about strategy.  This summer we have decided to follow the lead of the Club, and manage the bees the way Tom would prefer.  So we shall do an early season "shook swarm", something I have never done before.

An early "shook swarm" requires us to destroy all the eggs and larvae and sealed brood, and move all our bees and queens onto new wax.  This forces them to start all over again in a rush, working extra hard, but it also destroys all the varroa pests thriving on the bodies of the baby bees.  It will form part of our Integrated Pest Control strategy this year.  It's a dangerous tactic - time it wrong, get bad weather, and you could weaken a colony to the point of no recovery.  Time it just right and the bee girls will go like the clappers and you get a healthy, hard working result.

As we sat and talked it through I realised that I don't have a choice.  My hive is so big, dangerously big this early in the year, that a "shook swarm" has become a necessary intervention.

So be it.  I'm excited, looking forward to another year of learning and adventure.  Roll on, Summer of 2016!

 

Return

I miss my bees.  As spring comes again, I miss my bees :(

Vive la Reine Bleu

The nights are drawing in now and it gets too dark to share a beekeeping visit with Tom and Liz after they get home from work.  And I have rearranged my life to finish work early anyway, so I slip away at half past three and head home, ostensibly to study and go to gym but depression still has me in its evil grip, so mostly I go home to eat and grieve.

I take every opportunity I can to get out of the office now, too.  So today I have come to lunch with the bees.  They make me happy.  The last few times I've visited, I've stopped in astonishment - so much activity!  Each entrance is filled with bees rushing to and fro, in and out, out and away.  Their legs are full of golden orange pollen.  They march in rows, queuing to get in and out of the hive.  They whizz away, ignoring me in their flight path.  Their path is fixed and clear - you can watch them go straight up and away; I always wonder where they're headed.

Every year I forget that, in autumn, they tend to smash stuff onto their legs, stuffing as much pollen as possible into their baskets, hoarding and working and collecting and storing.  Brave bees.  They know what's coming ... the cold, the grey, the miserable.  How will we make it through!?  With every sweet thing comes the thought of the bitter.  Autumn is glorious, but winter is just round the corner.  The bees make me happy, but they're here and not there - at the bottom of my garden.   Tis hard to maintain a cheerful air; the autumn crisp, blue sky loveliness helps, so do the bees.

And a few weeks ago Tom helped too.  He's a bit like me - unable to contain his curiosity.  So while I was away, and he was inspecting his bees, he peeked inside the Death Star.  This is what I had taken to calling my hive.  They were so fiercely angry I literally couldn't get in there without being stung about fifty times.  They were in a difficult transition period because I had inadvertently saved the old Green Queen.  One afternoon I found Her lying on the ground in front of the hive - it was ridiculously amazing and accidental.  I just couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Her there and, because I loved Her so much, I scooped Her up and popped Her back in the hive.  Unfortunately there was a new Queen in there too, so they must have had a difficult time of it.  That is, until they finally managed to get the old Queen killed or thrown out successfully.  You know, when the Dumb Human Beekeeper wasn't around ...

Then Tom popped his head in while I was away, taking his life in his hands, only to find them as calm as kittens.  They'd killed the old Queen and the new Queen was laying, and all was well with the hive.  We call it Queen-Right.  And more than that, he found Her.  I bet he had a moment of hesitation, wondering whether to leave Her for me to mark.  But he did what I would've done; reached in, held Her gently and painted Her with a lavish and lovely blue mark.  

Vive la Reine Bleu!

Last week I suited up, lit the smoker and went in by myself.  They were not aggressive but definitely on the alert, so I didn't stay long.  I felt my heart leap with delight, and no end of pride, to see that they had drawn all the foundation in the super and absolutely stuffed it full of honey.  You beauties!  Set fair for the winter, then.

I met a beekeeper on the road to Khor Fakkan

He was Egyptian; he had three thousand hives back home in Egypt and over a thousand here in the Emirates.  He spoke of the hives in the mountains near Fujairah.  He spoke of honey that cost fortunes, rare, rich like toffee.  I tasted the honey he displayed on the shelves in his small, spare shop.  There were two flavours, one "summer" and one "sidr".    Bonita sat nearby, sipping Arabic coffee and tasting on dates.  She had passed by here so often and thought of me, and now here I was and she could share this place with me.


We had left Dubai late, engrossed as we were in the world of women.  We had spent the day in the Spa; manicure, pedicure, eyebrow threading, henna.  Outside the heat had become bearable and the blisters on the balls of my feet from the beach sand were beginning to heal.  We packed her car and made for the six-lane highway north to Sharja.  Then we turned into the heartland, across the vast emptiness to Al Dhaid and Fujairah, making our way to Dibba and then to Khor Fakkan for the night.

My eyes were on the high peaks far away in the distance when suddenly Bons pulled in to the right, to a small parade of shops in the middle of nowhere.  I was astonished to see a honey extractor standing out in the dust in front of the shop.  Bons hauled me out of the car excitedly and we visited two shops, close together, both selling honey.  And that is where I met the Egyptian.

She took a picture of us as we battled our way through the language barriers, to that place where beekeepers meet - talking about how we wire our frames, the global pestilence of varroa and how we treat it, and the joy of watching bees.  I never saw a single bee in the Emirates; I could not imagine where they foraged, but the Egyptian spoke of rich and verdant places in the mountains, where bees could thrive and make the best honey in the world.  There are never enough words, and always more joy than expected, no matter where we meet.

That night Bons and I sat on the beach, facing east on the Strait of Hormuz, looking out to Snoopy Island.  In the pitch darkness we reminisced and I could feel our connection return from so long, long ago, so many years and so many miles and experiences apart.   And as we talked and laughed quietly in the night, the ghostly shape of a blood-red moon rose from sea above the shoulder of the rock, and smiled on us.

I am so grateful for my friends.

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?

 

 

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.