Spring Clinic

Frogs

Is it spring, or isn’t it? The frogs seem to think so and have  flocked to the pond like Londoners on a trip to Margate, and for much the same purpose. The bees were out on Saturday, foraging in the sunshine. Almond blossom, I think. And possibly willow pollen.

It wasn’t all good news for the bees. One of the innumerable things beekeepers should be doing at this time of year is taking samples of bees along to the London Beekeepers Association microscopy clinic, where we check for a couple of common diseases. And that means abducting some bees and, to be brutally honest, not being very nice to them.

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Staying Alive

All three colonies are still alive.

Last week at the Greenhouses, thoughts of an early spring moved to the back burner once again, and the cheerful blossom of the apricot tree was shrouded with dismal matting to protect against the inevitable frost.

But the bees are still alive. Continue reading

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Winter Sunshine

Brockwell Bee

All our colonies are still alive (touch wood) and since the weather picked up last week, they’ve been seen flying merrily, especially when the sun’s been playing warmly on the hives. Here, as proof, is a picture of bees returning, laden with pollen, which I took on the 30th of January.
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On Being Wrong

As a child, I grew up in a village, surrounded by barbed-wire fences, half-built bypasses and rumours of supermarkets. To my young eyes, it was less than exciting. Worse, it was wrong. My storyboooks were full of talking animals, shiny tractors and smiling farmers, and children playing happily in fields and spinneys. Real life wasn’t. Real life offered the threat of being shot, trampled, electrocuted or gored, and soundly beaten afterwards, assuming you didn’t get run over first. The countryside belonged to other people, specifically to people with guns and life-threatening beasts. City streets may have a bad reputation, but they also have pavements, streetlights and crossings. In the sticks, you just have dark, narrow, winding lanes, six-foot hedges and the constant threat of a hopped-up tractor-jockey seeing if she can’t get the harrow up to 60. Cities have parks and libraries and cinemas and swimming pools. In the country, you’re lucky if you’ve got a ditch and a bus-stop.

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A personal first.

Queen Excluders

I haven’t been sleeping very well recently. Although this is partly due to the baleful influence of the sort of food and drink the government is pleased to frown upon, some of it is down to guilt.

Keen observers have noticed that the Brockwell hives look nothing like the pictures of hives properly prepared for winter that show up in all the best books. For a start, they are too tall, because I left some supers (honey boxes) on top. And, secondly, there were queen excluders underneath the honey boxes. They are, just about, visible in the picture. On these hives, they’re flat sheets of orange plastic that, when in place, are all but invisible. That’s not an excuse, merely a mitigating factor.

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Boxing Day

Some of those who celebrate Christmas think that following day should contain plenty of exercise. I, together with untold numbers of ex-foxes, do not share that opinion. But, all the same, I swallowed my fears of broken limbs and frostbitten fingers and left the scant comfort of my home to trudge through the cold, leafless misery of Boxing Day afternoon in order to check the hives for disasters. It wasn’t a completely sunless day, but the half-thawed snow of the week before remained, transformed into endless sparkling sheets of glistening ice that promised nothing but indignity or death. The dimal afternoon was not improved by the reappearance of aeroplanes in the drear expanse of sky, wallowing sluggishly westwards and reminding me, with each intrusive roar, of the sunnier climes I was not in.

Nestbox

There’s not a lot to do at this time of year, except check the hives for disasters, but that gloomy chore still has to be done. One, among many, of the disasters that bees can suffer is the attention of woodpeckers; percussive and opular birds that have evolved a talent for getting insects out of hollow wood. A nestbox that’s attached to a tree in the apiary has received some attention over the year from something that’s been nibbling at it. I can’t be sure if this is woodpecker damage without catching the culprit in the act, but it seems a reasonable assumption.

Another nestbox

This isn’t entirely bad news. Although woodpeckers can break into hives, they tend not to. Possibly that’s because hives don’t look enough like trees for them, or possibly they’re too close to the ground, where cats patrol. But I’m told that, in some parts of the country, woodpeckers routinely attack hives, which suggests that they’re gradually learning. I’m hoping that they’re not, and that they’re exceptional cases, where the hives are in open, cat-free places and the birds are so short of food that they’ll take on bees. But complacency breeds catastrophe, so I’m keeping an eye open.

Squirrel, hiding

Squirrels are a possibility, and they have been observed behaving furtively near the boxes, but the work looks a bit too neat for them and it’s been taking too long. Although squirrels can chew through wood relatively easily, that’s something they do to keep their teeth nice, and rarely part of a construction project, let alone one that’s been going on for months. Besides, those holes don’t look big enough for squirrels.

If the hives do start getting attacked, then we’ll have to wrap them in bubble-wrap or chicken-wire or anything else that will stop creatures from holding on effectively or getting too close to the wood to damage it. These are, simple, practical remedies, but also awkward and unsightly, and as it’s not yet a widespread problem in the area, we’ll trust to luck for the moment.

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Candy is dandy

It rained a little on Sunday. Not much, but enough to make it the fourth Sunday in a row that it’s rained and so, once again, we didn’t get much face-time with the bees. Mind you, rain is better than snow, and it’s snow that’s forecast for the forthcoming weekend Continue reading

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The Last Chance?

It is, or was, the mildest start to November since records began, according to the forecaster on the radio. And it certainly felt warm in the sunshine.

A mouseguard in place

The bees were staying indoors and although a couple were making use of their nice new mouseguards to promenade about the entrance, there was almost no visible activity. Apart from a brave bumblebee in the herb garden and a few flies in the greenhouses, there were hardly any insects flying at all. Which is what we expect in November.

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Mouseguard Mayhem

The National Honey Show was, by all accounts, a great success. Prizes were won, cups were awarded, lectures were given, tea was drunk and cakes were eaten. The trade hall was full of busy suppliers selling everything from soap to microscopes, and a good deal of business was done.

Much of that business must had involved mouseguards because, by the time I got there on the Saturday morning, mouseguards were out of stock everywhere, and disconsolate huddles of procrastinators were exchanging identical tales of tardy woe. It seems I wasn’t the only one not to have got my ducks in a row. That’s comforting in a way, but also unhelpful.

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Winter? What Winter?

Like running railways, beekeeping is an activity in which seasonal change comes as something of a shock. There must be something hypnotic about those sinusoidal schoolbook graphs of temperature and rainfall, for there’s no other explanation why, each autumn, I find myself short of mouseguards.

A mouseguard, as the name implies, is a guard against mice. It is usually a thin metal strips with small holes in, large enough to allow bees through, but not big enough to let mice follow them. You can make your own, by hammering lots of small nails into a strip of wood, like the teeth of a comb. But to do that, you need to know how far apart the nails should be. I can never remember and I’ve never found a mouse willing to help.

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