From A to Bee (32 page)

I used to be a big fan of
The Krypton Factor
when I was younger. I loved sitting down on a Monday evening to tune in to the unflappable Gordon Burns putting people through the rigours of assault courses and other tests that included a mental agility test. I thought these were evil until I worked for the Ministry of Defence during a university placement year. I was in charge of testing military recruits on their physical and mental performance in a range of environments. I once had to put some poor, spotty and smelly teenage army recruits into an ice bath and hold them down in the water to prevent them from jumping right out again. They had to then complete some manual dexterity tests while answering simple questions. Though the trials were cruel and the data analysis tedious and rather monotonous (it did put me off a career in research science!) it was fascinating and you could see the effects of environmental conditions on the brain's ability to coordinate activity. I used to think these were the hardest tests you could ask someone to complete until I started beekeeping.

  I have found the tasks I have to complete far harder than any drill instructor or Gordon Burns-type would have me doing. Halfway through my hive inspections on Sunday, memories of
The Krypton Factor
came flooding back as I struggled once again with the job of counting. The basic and yet fundamental task of counting frames with bees on, and secondly frames with brood on, is becoming a thorn in my side at each inspection. It sounds so easy, doesn't it? And yet with the added pressure of all the bees, I believe it would be the best test for the Ministry of Defence military recruits to test their mental awareness under a stressful situation. I would fail miserably.

  As usual I had completed the Omlet hive with no problem at all and it was a dream. I had counted eight frames with bees on and six containing eggs and brood, which was a good sign. I had even got a little bit cocky and started stroking them as they were so calm. This is exactly as it sounds and you just run your hand down the centre of the frame. I must stop thinking they are a pet Labrador! The only sticky moment was the point I realised that I was subconsciously holding my breath hoping that I would see the queen. As soon as I saw her I let out a large sigh of relief while saying 'Hello Queenie!', obviously delighted that I had seen her. The exhalation of air was right on the bees and caused a frantic five minutes of activity as they suddenly realised I was there. It was like an mass exodus from the frame and the only bee left was the queen.

  After seeing the queen, however, I relaxed and the hive inspection was quickly wrapped up, safe in the knowledge that she was there and they all looked healthy. I got to the feisty hive and then it felt like I had Gordon in my ear whispering to me. They were a little bit feistier than last week but I still felt a lot calmer about it all, knowing I had my lovely yellow Marigolds on.

  I was halfway through the inspection and realised that I hadn't been counting at all despite finding it easier with the Beehaus where I felt a lot more in control. With this hive I just seem to be concerned with not upsetting the bees and finding the eggs and queen, and my counting goes out of the equation. It is funny what happens to the brain while you are trying to reassure yourself that there is no way the kamikaze bees have a way in to your bee suit and that they won't sting your fingers and thumbs when you are picking up the frames.

  Incidentally, while going through the National hive I received my first ever sting to the hand but my yellow Marigolds saved me. As I was removing one of the frames, I felt an almighty vibration and heard a great buzz – well above middle C – on my right thumb. It turns out that I must have accidentally squashed a bee while trying to pick up the frame. As a result I had the interesting view of seeing a bee trying to sting my thumb but it couldn't penetrate the glove. It was getting madder and madder though as it had done just enough to get stuck with its sting partway through the glove.

  Generally a sting penetrates and the bee then tries to withdraw the sting, and in doing so rips off part of its abdomen; the sting then stays in the victim pumping in venom but the bee dies.

  As I was watching, the bee finally pulled with enough vigour that she ripped away her abdomen and the stinger was left behind and, without wanting to be too graphic, she left parts of her insides with it. She struggled off, obviously satisfied she had dealt with the threat but I would think also quite astounded as she had lost the bottom part of her body. She flew off and I stood there watching this pulsating sting which was quite fascinating, especially as no venom was being pumped into my thumb this time. Despite the fate of that bee, it was an interesting sight to see and before I carried on with the inspection I removed the stinger and gently puffed my thumb with smoke to remove the pheromone smell, which would otherwise have got the hive angrier than it already was.

  On this occasion, Gordon had got the better of me and the drill instructor was just laughing; it felt as if they were on my shoulders like little devils. Sadly I didn't get to see the queen – always frustrating – but I knew there were eggs so I wasn't overly concerned. I put the hive back together and wondered if the Ministry of Defence or
The Krypton Factor
had ever considered a test using bees. I went back home, had a cup of coffee and filled out my hive inspection cards with part skill and part guesswork. Still, always a lovely and fulfilling moment when you have finished a hive inspection.

I have been earning brownie points today and ended up at the mother-in-law's house to clear some of her garden. As all men know, brownie points make the world go round and whereas you get a point for each good deed, it is double points when you are talking about your mother-in-law. However, it was quite an upheaval to get to Wendy's house. Considering we were staying over, the amount of stuff we have to take for Sebastian is immense and it meant that Jo and I were exhausted.

  Having spent most of the day clearing weeds and chopping back trees, not to mention the prickliest bush ever, I was taking a well-earned rest now that Sebastian was in bed and sitting down tucking into some ice cream and a can of coke (what a treat but such is the power of brownie points!). Jo brought out the post that had been delivered that morning and I saw there, on the top of the pile, was the new edition of
Beecraft
. Essentially this is the official journal of the British Beekeepers' Association and is actually quite an interesting read. I put it to one side while the vanilla ice cream and coke mixture took me to a new level of happiness.

  Just as I was tucking into another mouthful, Jo leaned over, picked up the magazine and started to flick through it. I couldn't believe my eyes and was watching in awe thinking that maybe, just maybe my inane ramblings about the topic or the constant sleep-talking about bees was having an effect.

  She stopped and was reading something intently for a moment, and then turned to me and said, 'Nice to see you fit the beekeeping stereotype so well.' Slightly bemused, I sacrificed my final mouthful, interested in what she may have been reading. It became apparent that she had read an article entitled 'What Makes a Great British Beekeeper' and this was essentially the findings from a recent study undertaken by the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA).

  It stated that the recent uptake of beekeeping has been from people who enjoy listening to Radio 4 (otherwise Radio 2 or Classic FM) and the chances are they read a broadsheet newspaper at least once a week. All sarcasm aside, this pretty much describes me to a T and I was feeling pretty good about it. I would like to think it was portraying me as slightly highbrow and perhaps with a semblance of intelligence.

  It was only then, reading further on, and seeing Jo giggle away that I read the part stating that the majority were over fifty years old (66 per cent in fact). Due to Wendy, my mother-in-law, being there, and not wanting to jeopardise any earlier points scored, I didn't rise to the bait and silently closed the magazine for later perusal. Jo just smiled, obviously feeling quite pleased with herself.

  How rude!

I am a very rich green colour today as I'm full of envy.

  All the signs are that the honey flow has stopped and I stand around with bated breath hoping that my little ones are still out there flying around trying to get the last of the nectar to make honey. During the last two weeks of hive inspections, I have been willing them to just make me enough for a simple jar of honey and have been practically begging them on bended knees to get a move on.

  Then three separate beekeepers made comments that make me feel like my bees are the 100-metre runners trying to run a 400-metre race. They got out of the blocks fast enough but have been fading ever since!

  It all started with an email from Adam, essentially my online mentor (despite the fact that we share a pint with other beekeepers each Wednesday, most of our correspondence is over email), who said his hives are roaring along in what appears to be the most productive year for a long time. In his own words, 'This honey flow is a once-in-a-decade event.' I wasn't put off by this, though maybe a little jealous; but also pleased that the bees had done well and this was exactly what they needed.

  Then on Monday I received a taunting text from Richard who knew exactly what I was aiming for and it read simply: 'Just inspected hives, four sides of supers in one hive and three sides in other super with sealed honey, looks like will get a harvest this year.' Interestingly he got his nucleus about a week after mine so he must have a strain of bee that is more like a good 400-metre runner in the same race as my own and finishing with some vigour. A rather sarcastic yet jealous reply was swiftly sent.

  As I was beginning to accept my fate, my level of envy increased a notch or two when I was contacted by a beekeeping acquaintance of mine on my Beginner Beekeepers Facebook page. Now this guy is like the oracle of beekeeping Down Under and he is as commercial a beekeeper as anyone. If Carling made beekeepers he would probably be the best beekeeper in Australia!

  He started off by asking how I was getting on and we got into some pleasant chitchat about how everything was going. I mentioned in passing that I had put in quite a lot of work and was still hopeful that I might still get a single jar out this year. To this comment I could almost hear his laughter all the way from Australia.

  He stated that he'd had a pretty good winter so far and his 3,000 hives – yes 3,000 – were pretty active. He reckoned he could extract about 100 kilograms (about 220 pounds) of honey, which I have to say I thought sounded a little low and so I questioned it. It was at this point that he corrected me and stated that he was expecting about 100 kilograms PER HIVE!! I couldn't believe it. Here I was talking to a guy about my struggles to get one jar from a hive and he was getting more than my own bodyweight in honey from each hive! I felt like a true whingeing Pom at this stage but I suppose this is the difference between a little lowly hobbyist beekeeper like me and a true professional, commercial beekeeper like him.