2025 — A YEAR OF BEES, BUMPS AND BELIEF
DECEMBER: 2025 IN REVIEW — A YEAR OF BEES, BUMPS, AND (SOMEHOW) HOPE
Right then… confession time.
If “consistency” were a jar of honey, mine would have crystallised, been eaten, and the empty jar would now be under the sink “for later.”
September vanished, November didn’t make an appearance, and this December blog is doing the job of a small committee.
But you know what? 2025 has been one of those years — the kind where life is loud, the bees are louder, and the house I moved into feels less “dream cottage” and more… The Rosebud Motel, Buckinghamshire Edition.
So, pop the kettle on, settle in, and let me take you through the year — fun bits, hard bits, and the bee bits (which, as always, are the real heart of it all).
❄️ JANUARY: SNOW, SLUSH, AND “NO, I’M NOT OPENING A HIVE”
January 3rd found me heading to the apiary, not for a full hive inspection (don’t be ridiculous), but to check stores — because winter is exactly when complacency likes to sneak in wearing a cosy scarf and whisper, “They’ll be fine…”
And yes, the weather turned sharply cold after a soggy mild start, and snow was predicted.
This is where I admitted something shocking: I hate snow. Not snow in Switzerland, or snow in fairy tales. I mean English snow. The kind that lasts three hours, looks like Christmas, and then turns into a slushy ice rink that tries to break your coccyx.
Still, it was the perfect reminder that the bees are biding their time — waiting for spring — and that even in the quiet months, there’s work to do and hope to hold onto.
And somewhere in the background, Karen Carpenter was singing, “We’ve only just begun…”
💝 FEBRUARY: MIZZLE, MATHS, AND MY NAGGING ERA
February arrived with crocuses, daffodils doing their best, and the weather doing what it does best: mizzling. (I looked it up…it is a word.!)
And because it was Valentine’s Day, I did what any sensible beekeeper does: I got romantic about… fondant.
My message was simple (and loud): DO NOT PRESUME OR ASSUME ANYTHING.
You may think they’ve got stores. You may heft the hive and feel reassured. But if it’s cold, they might not be able to reach those stores — and bees will cling to their queen for warmth even if it risks starvation.
So yes, I nagged. I owned it. And I even left you a checklist — because that’s love, really, isn’t it? Not roses. Not chocolates. A fondant reminder and a gentle shove toward preparedness.
🚚 MARCH: THE BEES ARE BACK IN BUCKS!
March brought a huge change: moving back to Buckinghamshire — and bringing my girls with me.
Now, moving bees is not like moving house plants. You can’t just pop them in the back seat and tell them to “hold tight.” It’s careful, planned, done in cooler hours, with entrances blocked and a travel screen for airflow. Ratchet straps. Tarpaulin. The full “beekeeper-on-a-mission” routine.
And when we arrived? They acclimatised beautifully. Like they’d always belonged there. As for me? I totally belonged back in Bucks. No offence to Herefordshire… I’d been terribly homesick and needed to come home.
And so, with far too small a garden to put bees in, (they were in a friends field), I began the wait for someone in the village to knock and say, “Would you like to put bees at the bottom of my garden?”
Meanwhile, there was plenty of things to get on with and with decent weather, I got properly stuck in.
One hive had the Bailey Comb Change — a slower, methodical way of replacing tired old comb with fresh foundation.
Another had a Shook Swarm — a quicker, harsher fresh start, and yes… I did it despite my soft-hearted vegetarian soul. bSome decisions in beekeeping are practical, not poetic.
And the third hive? Storming ahead like it had a deadline.
So early spring was busy, practical, and full of learning — the kind of learning that comes with sticky gloves and a hive tool in hand.
🤕 APRIL: NATURE’S LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS?
April began with a mystery hive that had been worrying me for ages — odd behaviour, lots of activity, and my brain flipping between “Is this disease?” and “Is this just bees being bees?”
Cue: the National Bee Unit and a visit from the local inspector.
And honestly? It was like an episode of a beekeeping drama:
Surprise queen cells.
Queens emerging while we worked.
One hatching in my hand.
A frame falling apart in front of the inspector (yes, I lived that moment in real time).
And the final verdict: a colony exhibiting remarkable hygienic behaviour
IT IS HERE I HAVE TO ADD THIS IMPORTANT ADDENDUM: The “hygienic hive” wasn’t hygienic after all. The inspector was wrong (it happens — even the experts get stung by surprises). The queen wasn’t right, nothing catching, but she had to go. I re-queened… and the girls pulled it together like the absolute legends they are. Bees: forever keeping me slightly baffled and deeply impressed.
It was one of those moments where the bees reminded me: You can keep bees for years and still be humbled in five minutes.
But April also brought something tender — helping a local widow with her late husband’s bees, and gently supporting the passing of that hive to the next generation. Bees don’t just make honey, do they? They hold stories. They hold people.
😂 MAY/JUNE: F… U… N… E… X… ? AND THE YEAR OF “OH FOR GOODNESS SAKE”
Somewhere in the middle of the year, life went into fast-forward.
There were swarms. There was queen drama. There was nail-biting waiting. There were eggs — tiny pins of hope — and there was the relief when new queens were laying.
There was queen spotting (a niche talent I’m oddly proud of).
There were laying workers and hard decisions.
And there was World Bee Day — speaking at school, children dressed in black and yellow (except me, who clearly didn’t get the memo), brilliant questions, wonderful energy… and yes, selling out of books.
That day reminded me why I do this: Because bees inspire wonder. And children are still capable of pure, curious awe — the kind adults forget.
👑 JULY: WHEN QUEENS GO MISSING AND WASPS TRY TO MOVE IN
July taught me (again) that beekeeping is basically: make a plan… then laugh as bees do something else.
Queenless hives. Colonies needing uniting. The newspaper method. The “why won’t you just keep a queen?” frustration.
And then the wasps arrived early, sniffing out weakness like tiny flying burglars.
So I reduced entrances, stayed vigilant, and tried to keep calm — while quietly muttering things that would definitely not be suitable for a children’s book.
🏌️♀️ AUGUST: THE ROSEBUD MOTEL DIARIES — MOVING AGAIN, WASPS IN THE SHED, AND A GOLF BUGGY APIARY
August was… a cocktail.
The bees struggled. I struggled. The house we bought moved from being a “project” to “what have we done?”
Wasps moved into my shed in such numbers I considered charging them rent.
My bees needed a better site. I searched. I tested. I declined one lovely location because it was too far to carry supers… until… the owner handed me keys to a golf buggy and said, “Try before you buy.”
And would you believe it — the new site produced honey like it was showing off. So I moved the rest of the hives.
And then, like a horror film, a hornet appeared on my first visit and snatched one of my girls in mid-air.
Nature is brutal. Bees are precious. And yes — I trapped hornets. Vegetarian or not, my loyalty is with my bees. (Please send chocolates, not hate mail).
This was also the moment I decided: this year, the bees keep more of their own honey. After everything, it only felt right.
🍂 OCTOBER/NOVEMBER: STILLNESS, WINTER PREP, AND THE HUM BENEATH THE QUIET
By late autumn, the apiary softened into stillness.
Supers under brood boxes. Mouse guards on. Thermal casings fitted. Fondant in place. The bees hunkered down, clustering around their queen like a living heartbeat.
And when I stood there, watching the quiet entrances, I was reminded of something important:
Stillness isn’t absence.
It’s life continuing — quietly, collectively, doing what needs to be done.
🐝 AND THROUGH IT ALL… THE IMPORTANCE OF THE BEES
Now let me bring this back to what matters most.
This year has been a reminder that our honeybees — and all pollinators — are carrying a heavier load than ever.
Weather swings. Wet winters. Dry springs. Drought. Heatwaves. Shifts in forage. Predators arriving early. Pressure from every angle.
And yet…
They still fly.
They still build.
They still pollinate flower by flower, holding our world together in ways most people never even notice.
And if that isn’t a lesson in resilience, teamwork, and quiet devotion, I don’t know what is.
📚 WHAT’S NEXT?
Ah yes — the small matter of finishing Betsie Valentine and the Honeybees of Hope.
My goal: written by Christmas, edited by the end of January, and launched (if the universe is kind) at the beekeeping show (www.thebeekeepingshow.co.uk) in Telford next February.
I can hear you laughing. I’m laughing too. Slightly hysterically. But I’m determined. Because if the bees have taught me anything this year, it’s this: You don’t quit because the season is hard. You adjust. You learn. You carry on.
🧡 THANK YOU
Thank you for being here — for reading, for caring, for supporting my work and my bees and my slightly chaotic life.
If 2025 has taught me anything, it’s that hope doesn’t always arrive in one grand moment. Sometimes it arrives as:
a tiny egg in a cell,
a queen returning safely,
a child’s wide-eyed question,
or the quiet hum of a winter cluster behind wooden walls.
Here’s to 2026.
May it bring calmer weather, stronger queens, fewer wasps…
and a house that feels less like a motel.
With love,
Meriet
P.S. I had fully intended to write a blog about Varroa this month. However, when faced with the choice between festive reflection and parasitic mites, I chose joy. I promise Varroa will get its moment in January — but for now, let’s keep things light, lovely, and full of goodwill. It is Christmas, after all.
From my hive to yours — Merry Christmas and thank you for being part of this journey. 🐝🎄