THE BEE WITH A GRUDGE

I'm writing this from beside a swimming pool, with a gentle breeze blowing through my hair...

She lied.

This is England.

Last week it was so hot you couldn't make sudden movements without breaking into a sweat. This week I'm hanging onto a garden umbrella for dear life because every gust threatens to carry it, the table and the sun lounger into next week.

I'm determined to sit by this pool, though. It's a well-earned break after spending the last four or five months editing the third and final book in the Betsie Valentine trilogy. My poor husband has spent much of that time being shushed every time he dared enter the room, so I think we've both earned a few days away.

The pool itself is beautiful, surrounded by wildflowers. Unfortunately those same wildflowers are now shedding petals into the water, so every now and then I find myself fishing them out before the owner returns and raises a wary eyebrow.

My husband has wisely retreated indoors with the dog and the newspaper.

Sensible?

Absolutely.

Am I joining him?

Not a chance.

Anyway... enough about holidays.

Let's talk about bees.

When I sat down to write this month's blog, I thought there wasn't really much to report. The June Gap has been almost non-existent here, the bees are still bringing in nectar, and everything has been ticking along rather nicely.

Then I started thinking.

Actually... quite a lot has happened.

Last month I had five hives. Two had queens. Three didn't.

Fast forward a few weeks and I now have seven hives. Well, six and a half, one is a nuc…half the size of a full hive… See the odd one out above!

One swarm kindly landed in my apiary and decided it rather liked the neighbourhood, so I happily gave it a home. See the video below…

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/Za7k9Gnc8M4

Another colony looked as though it was preparing to swarm. Rather than perform a full Pagden artificial swarm, I decided to try something I'd heard about at one of our bee club talks - a straightforward split.

In simple terms, I moved the old queen into a nuc with a few frames of bees, brood and stores, leaving the original colony to raise themselves a brand-new queen.

I crossed everything that could reasonably be crossed, shut both boxes up and walked away.

Nine days later...

Success!

The queen in the nuc was laying beautifully, and the original colony had produced two lovely supersedure queen cells.

Perfect.

Or so I thought.

The moment I lifted the roof off that queenless hive, I knew something wasn't right.

Normally my bees are wonderfully good natured.

Not today.

Within seconds one had crawled up inside my bee suit and stung me on the foot.

Not a little passing sting either.

A proper, "How very dare you!" sting.

Fair enough, I thought.

Perhaps I deserved that.

I wandered over to my equipment box, removed the sting, muttered a few words that probably weren't entirely beekeeping-related, and headed back.

This time I barely lifted the first super before another bee managed to sting me straight through my glove.

Now, I wear long cuffed surgical gloves because they're much easier for handling frames without accidentally squashing bees.

Normally they're brilliant.

Today...

Not so much.

Back to the equipment box.

Another sting removed.

Another deep breath.

Another attempt.

By now the air around me was filling with increasingly annoyed bees. They weren't just cross.

They were offended.

I covered the supers with a cloth, put the roof back on, and decided we'd all benefit from ten minutes apart.

So I wandered off to the shady end of the apiary and sat quietly on my equipment box.

Most of the bees eventually lost interest.

Except three.

Three bees remained circling around my head like tiny, airborne security guards.

Every time I stood up...

There they were.

Every time I sat down...

They waited.

I politely suggested they might like to return home.

They ignored me.

I tried reasoning with them.

Nothing.

Eventually I thought, "Right. We've all had a little breather. Let's get this inspection finished."

Back to the hive I went…with my three angry escorts.

Fortunately, the two queen cells were only five frames in, because by now the colony had attracted what seemed like every cross bee in Buckinghamshire.

I checked the queen cells.

Closed the hive.

Thanked them very sincerely for not stinging me again.

And headed over to inspect the nuc containing their old queen.

The bees in there were delightful.

Quiet.

Contented.

Busy.

My three companions, however...

Still followed me.

Now, I have a theory.

These three girls had been present when I'd removed their queen.

As far as they were concerned, I was the kidnapper.

The other bees had accepted the situation and moved on.

Not these three.

Oh no.

These three had formed a committee.

Their sole purpose in life appeared to be making mine as awkward as possible.

Eventually I packed everything away and began the long walk back through the woods.

Still wearing my bee suit.

Still accompanied by my three bodyguards.

Luckily I didn't meet anyone. Explaining why I was wandering along a public footpath dressed like an astronaut with three bees hovering around my head wasn't high on my list of things to do that afternoon.

Eventually two of them gave up.

One remained.

Seriously?

Yes.

She simply would not leave.

I stopped.

She stopped.

I walked.

She followed.

I even stood perfectly still with my eyes closed, visualising her flying happily back to her hive.

She clearly wasn't into mindfulness.

Eventually she disappeared.

Success!

I cautiously unzipped my veil.

Nothing.

Folded it back.

Nothing.

Excellent.

I smiled.

Bang!

Straight on the forehead. Within hours I knew I would go from beekeeper to extra in Avatar.

I was so cross.

Now, before anyone writes to me...

I do try very hard not to harm bees.

I'm vegetarian.

I spend half my life looking after them.

But this particular bee had just spent the best part of one hour, harassing me at the apiary and twenty minutes stalking me through a woodland.

She fell to the ground.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

And...

I trod on her.

Then, standing there removing my bee suit, I suddenly remembered something.

My father was a Theosophist.

He believed in reincarnation.

He was convinced we come back until we've finally learnt whatever lessons we're meant to learn.

Which got me thinking.

I had a Geography teacher at school who absolutely couldn't stand me.

Now, in fairness, I wasn't the easiest child to teach. We now know I'm ADHD, but back in the 1960s and 70s that simply meant I was forever being told I "could do better if I tried harder."

This teacher and I were never destined to be friends.

In fact, our relationship ended rather spectacularly with me tearing up my entire Geography folder just a few months before my O Levels.

Long story.

Anyway...

Standing there in the woods with a throbbing forehead and swollen nose and one particularly determined bee lying at my feet...

I couldn't help wondering...

Perhaps that bee had been my Geography teacher.

If my father was right, she'd finally caught up with me.

Unfortunately for her...

I'd had the last word.

So perhaps we'll continue the argument in another lifetime.

Personally, I have absolutely no idea what I believe.

I just try to be as kind a person as I can.

Just in case.

Despite all that excitement, the honey flow here has continued beautifully. With seven hives I'm actually running short of supers, so I'm extracting a couple at a time before putting them straight back onto the colonies.

The honey this year is gorgeous.

Batch Three is particularly lovely, and I've tucked a jar away for the National Honey Show.

Who knows...

Perhaps this will be the year.

And finally...

After months of editing, rewriting, deleting, rewriting again, doubting myself, and generally driving my poor husband quietly round the bend, I received this email from my editor while sitting by that very windy swimming pool.

"I've read enough to know that you are absolutely nailing it.

I will start my full report on Monday...

Very excited."

I don't mind admitting that made my holiday.

I'll leave you with one final thought.

As you are aware by now I always like to leave you with food for thought, be it a poem or a lovely image of my beautiful bees. Here a few images and a little food for thought.

A single worker honeybee produces only about one twelfth of a teaspoon of honey during her entire lifetime.

Yet behind every jar of honey lie the lifetime efforts of hundreds of honeybees, around two million flowers, countless waggle dances, and together the equivalent of two journeys around the Earth.

Once you know that... t’s impossible to look at a spoonful of honey in quite the same way.