Blessed by Bees

The walls of the house here at Halfway Up A Hill are about 18" thick, the construction of local stone and slate. The house was built in the 1930's but its traditional style makes it look older.

In one corner of the kitchen is a cupboard, recessed into the wall adjacent to the chimney breast. Here the walls are even thicker because of the chimney. I assume the cupboard was used as a primitive fridge, as there's a vent to the outside that allows the circulation of fresh air. In winter it's quite effective, and we have used it to store excess fruit and vegetables when our own fridge has been struggling to cope (although mostly it has cookware and crockery in it).

A couple of weeks ago I returned home from work to find the kitchen full of honeybees. They were entering through the vent in the cupboard - a swarm had found the vent and decided it looked like the perfect place to set up their new colony. By opening the windows and blocking the vent where it opened into the cupboard I managed to vacate the kitchen of bees. I imagined that with the vent blocked inside, there wouldn't be enough room for the new hive and the colony would vacate. But there must be more space in the walls than I imagined as they have stuck around, and can be seen industriously zooming in and out of the vent in the outer wall by the patio at the side of the house. It's just above head height, so the bees and I don't bother each other in our comings and goings. I decided I rather liked having them there, it feels like a blessing on the house. 

This morning I discovered something even more wondrous: when I open the cupboard I can faintly hear the humming of the hive, hundreds of bees gently buzzing as they go about their work building and tending their home. It sounds like some kind of distant choir. It's the kind of soothing sound that could lull you to sleep, like distant gulls and gentle waves on the shore or the soft patter of rain on leaves. 

I imagine the orderly world taking shape within the walls of the house, and the sweetness being created there. My house is truly blessed by bees.

My Lawn is Full of Dandelions

My lawn is full of dandelions.

Glowing in the sunlight, shivering in the breeze. My lawn is full of golden treasure...

The lawnmower died last summer, and the once-tidy green expanse outside my window suffered a series of disastrous patchy scalpings for the rest of the year as I struggled to tame it with the strimmer.

This spring I have not yet cut the grass, which has suddenly spurted into growth. It is beautiful, lush, green - thick with dandelions, daintily dotted with lady's smock and nodding cowslips.

My neighbour used to wage war on dandelions each spring, pulling them up and chopping them down in a furious and futile battle to contain their exuberance and stop them spreading little parachute-puff seeds far and wide.

My neighbour passed away. The dandelions nonchalantly survived her feverish assaults and have spread with joyous, reckless abandon.

Now bees bumble contentedly as they feast on the abundant, incandescent blooms, and swallows swoop, chattering gleefully in the blue spring sky.

I put the strimmer away, unused for another day, and go to lie among the dandelions in the warm, damp grass.

Time Off For Good Behaviour?

St Swithin's Day is 15th July. According to tradition, if it rains on St Swithin's Day, it will rain for 40 days and 40 nights thereafter. Of course - it rained.

But what if we've already had 40 days and 40 nights of rain? Do we get any credit for that?

I can't get my washing dry. My veggies have mostly given up (sadly, not so the weeds). The cats have cabin fever. The slugs are having a field day. I'm having to feed the bees sugar syrup because they can't forage. My sandals are gathering dust under the bed, and my boots want a rest.

Come on St Swithin, give us a break!

Busy Bees

Oh. My. God. To say the least.

I am beyond exhausted.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you'll know about my disappointment at the cancellation of Avalon Witchcamp. In the aftermath, a suggestion was made that an alternative event be put on in its place. Somehow - I guess I'm just a gal who can't say no - I have found myself in the thick of organising a Reclaiming Summer Gathering for disappointed Witchcampers and other interested parties. It has been exhausting just because there is so much to do before the Gathering manifests in early August. Plus there are complicated financial manoeuvres to ensure Avalon gets paid back its deposit on the venue so that disappointed Witchcampers can get reimbursed their deposits so they can pay to come to the Gathering. I think. My head is spinning just thinking about it. And of course we are trying to decide what workshops and activities to provide, what supplies we may need to cost in and how to get word out in time to ensure a good attendance.


On top of that I'm working on a fundraising project to help Avalon out with the balance of the debts they've incurred in planning camp for this year. I've been pasting together a 'Best Of' the British Reclaiming Newsletter (of which I'm editor) to sell to raise funds. It's been fiddly and time consuming, but I'm quite pleased with the results so far, and I already have three advance orders, even though it's not quite ready yet.


And for some reason I can't quite remember in the midst of all this - although I do know that it seemed a grand idea at the time - I've invited the members of the local Pagan Moot along to a Summer Solstice ritual and feast next Thursday evening, for which I have so far had absolutely no time to prepare.


Plus in the mundane world of Jobs That Must Be Done I'm in the middle of painting our kitchen, and trying to stay on top of a garden that - now we've had some rain - thinks it's some kind of temperate jungle.


And the phone hasn't stopped ringing all day (I think everyone who knows us has rung at least once).


By this evening I was really, really tired - and more than happy to sit down in front of the TV to watch Dr Who and consume veg & cashew nut stir fry and a bottle or two of lager. Ah!


Ah! That is, until I strolled down the hill to give the chickens their evening corn - and discovered bees swarming in one of the trees in the orchard. Then it was more like, 'Aaaaaaaggghhhh!!!!!'.


There were two possibilities - either they were our own bees, about to fly off and forsake us for pastures new, or they were a new swarm looking for a home. With a decent swarm of bees at the local auction fetching on average £130 this spring, either way we didn't want to lose them. Knowing that a swarm can take off and fly away at any moment, I dashed breathlessly back up the hill to alert T. We struggled into our protective gear and grabbed a spare hive and a box to shake the swarm into. Have you ever tried to run full pelt down a Welsh hillside in a beekeeping suit and veil whilst carrying a hive? I really don't recommend it. Especially after a large plate of stir fry and a couple of lagers.


It says in all the books that swarming bees are docile and don't sting (wrong!). It says that all you have to do is give the branch a firm shake and the whole mass will fall gently into the box from whence they can be transferred to their new home (wrong!). It makes it sound like a piece of cake. It isn't. These bees have obviously been reading different books.


But, at last they were (most of them) in their new hive. Tomorrow we will be able to have a proper check and establish if we've merely relocated our existing bees or if we're lucky enough, captured a new swarm. Right now I actually don't care much. At least I should sleep well!

Summer Senses

Five summer sights...
The cats searching for a cool place to lie... Birds working hard to feed their brood... Bees hovering above the hive entrance... Wildflowers speckling the meadow... Fruit swelling on the trees...

Five summer smells...
Freshly mown grass... Jasmine in the evening... Warm wet earth after a rainshower... The intoxicating scent of elderflowers... Tomato leaves in the greenhouse...

Five summer sounds...
The joyous chattering of swallows on the wing... Tractors zooming down the lane... Bees bumbling in the comfrey patch... Thunder in the distance... Buzzards mewing overhead...

Five summer tastes...
Sunwarmed strawberries... Freshly dug new potatoes... The sweetness of the first homegrown tomato... The tang of homemade lemonade... The juicy bittersweet crunch of lettuce straight from the garden...

Five summer sensations...
The tenderness of baby broad beans... The sting of sunburned shoulders... Wet trails of dewy grass on bare legs... The velvet delicacy of rose petals... Hot paving underfoot...

Imbolc Musings

Imbolc was a beautiful day here in West Wales. It started off a bit dull & murky, but by afternoon the sun had broken through and it was bright and more surprisingly, warm. Positively shirt-sleeves weather. They don't have groundhogs here in Wales, but if they did the groundhogs would not only have been able to see their shadows but they would probably have been wearing knotted hankies on their heads and rolling up their trouser legs.

Global warming certainly seems a reality on a day like this, albeit not a harsh one.

After cleaning out the chooks, I took a stroll down the hill to look at my bees, and they were out in force enjoying the balmy weather. There's really not that much bee fodder available this early, even though it has been an extraordinarily mild winter, so I was relieved to see them making full use of the gorse blossom near their hive. The snowdrops haven't yet opened, but there are daffodils in the bottom of the hedge that are nearly out, and on the way back to the house I found a clump of crocuses opening wide smiling faces to the sun.

I'm always happy to see the first signs of spring but under my happiness there is a little shiver of apprehension. This isn't the way it's supposed to be.

Yet while it's mild and sunny and the weather's not extreme, there's a great temptation to just enjoy it. And the bees seem content.