There are times when I think that I’m paranoid, or possibly prone to auditory hallucinations. Many’s the time that I’ll be sat at my desk, and think to myself “…is that the sound of 30,000 bees taking to the wing?” Yesterday was one of those days that proved, again, that I have good reason to imagine that I can hear large clouds of flying bees.
2024 – much like 2023 really
Before I begin, I will say that my experiences with bee-keeping pale into microscopic insignificance when compared to those living in Gaza or Eastern Ukraine, or in fact all too many countries and regions of the world. The list of places facing war, conflict, poverty, crime, and economic turbulence is sadly very long, and profoundly depressing. So when I write what I write, it is written in my dry humour, with the full knowledge that I am blessed in more ways than I can count.
As I ruminated in my last blog, weather-wise, the Spring of 2024 feels very reminiscent to the same time in 2023. It has been warm, but not generally warm enough for routine inspections. Those manipulations that have been conducted have been hurried affairs in snatched windows of benign weather – and generally by Jen or me, and rarely together.
So, as Monday the 8th April arrived, with a warm sun and a blue sky, I opened the door to let spring into the house. I settled to some work, and revelled in the welcome change in the weather. As morning turned to lunchtime, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I could hear a familiar sound. Probably I couldn’t, but maybe I’ve developed a sixth sense – in the same way that when Sorrel is asleep, she knows when I have my phone poised to photograph her.
I looked up from my desk towards the patch of sky above the apiary. Even with my Mr Magoo eyesight and a backdrop of trees, I was fairly sure I could see a haze of flying bees.
I stepped to the back door, and “Yes”, we had lift-off.
I suited up in my bee jacket, and wandered up the garden in a mood that combined interest, frustration, admiration, and annoyance in an emotional soup that lacked any real definition. I’d put my mood at that moment as “Minestrone”.
Arriving at the apiary, I was greeted with an all too familiar sight.
What to do?
The girls were airborne, and they were either (a) preparing to set off to a new postcode, or (b) they were about to find a local tree to sit in for a day or so. My accrued knowledge of bee chicanery told me that I should enjoy the experience, and wait to see which it was.
If it was (a) then I would have the tumultuous sight of their airial congregation before I bid them bon voyage. If it was (b) then I’d have the opportunity to practice my tree climbing skills, and see if I can collect a warm without breaking part of my body.
In true bee style it was a new option, being (c) they would return to the front of the hive and catch some sun.
Jen and I exchanged notes via WhatsApp, and then a phone call. What was interesting was that while I was in the apiary with my phone and on the call, the bees absolutely peppered my phone.
With some advice, we decided that we’d gently sweep the bees from the front of the hive into a poly nuc, and then make it up from there.
If you’ve never done it, putting your hand into a cluster of about 30,000 bees takes something of a leap of faith, but it is one the best experiences. As a collective, the bees are placid, tactile, crumbly, and insanely beautiful.
Balancing the poly on my knee against the hive, I did my best to gently sweep them into the nuc before gently adding some frames of foundation, and popping them to one side.
With the girls now in the nuc, and my stomach lodging serious complaints of neglect, I took myself back to the house. The logic was that the queen had been on the front of the hive (hence the girls), and she was now in the poly nuc, so any remaining swarms bees should follow her in, and we could decide what to do.
Jen got home, suited up, and we peered into the poly. I think I counted 3 bees. Excellent! No queen in the poly. No bees. The front of the hive was brisk with bees, but whereas it might have been 30,000 earlier in the day, we must surely be down to less than 5,000.
Not deterred, we concluded that she must still be on the outside of the hive, so we swept the now diminished collection of bees into the poly, and left it at that.
Tuesday
Enjoying the benefit of having flexible work, I checked out the poly on Tuesday afternoon, and found what I can only describe as a pathetic sight. Sure – the bees were there, but they scarcely occupied 1 and a half frames. They had gone from a 30,000 slightly annoying and vaguely intimidating “swarm” to a collection of bees that without help would struggle. I fed them some 1:1 syrup and did other things until Jen got home.
We had a pow-wow, and concluded that we would give them a frame of stores from last year, and also a frame of brood from the original Holly colony. We figured that this would yield more bees to keep the inside of the hive warm, plus a supply of new bees to replace the outgoing crop. Our only worry was the prospect of fighting, which we felt to be a small risk. We shall see.
From the chart below, which is my blood pressure from the day, can you guess when I was dealing with the bees??
