A break in the weather

Visiting the bee hives, fallen trees and some news.

The weather has settled since yesterday’s gales tore through the countryside here. I have finally been able to lift the roofs from the beehives for a sneaky look. They have remained undisturbed for over a month now, ratcheted tightly closed, locking the different levels together, to prevent them from being toppled by roe deer in need of a scratch.

The sun shone brightly today on the wooden hives, warming the entrances. The temperature had risen to over ten degrees Celsius, there was no wind and the deep blue of the sky felt almost spring-like. Just after lunch is the best time for bees to take flight, so I settled myself on the old brick wall and waited a while, quietly watching to see if any bees were inclined to venture out for a stretch of their wings. Looking at the entrance to see if there is evidence of broken wax cappings, that would show that the bees have been uncapping their honey stores, though I can’t see any of the little shavings of beeswax today. A solitary scout is sent out to see who I am, she checks me and goes back inside, seemingly happy I am not a deer or a badger. I talk to the hives to tell them the news from the family, as is expected of me as a beekeeper. The bees are also family, and tradition dictates that your bees must be kept abreast of any important news. I tell them that there are two new Shetland ponies, two large pigs and a new puppy named Blue and that Surfboard is in calf. I tell them that winter is slowly turning to spring now that Christmas is past, but I imagine that they already know that.

I added blocks of sugar fondant to the top level of each hive at the end of last November when I carried out my final inspection for the year. This fondant is their extra food for the winter. I was pleased to find two strong colonies, both Queens present and still laying eggs to ensure their survival, as they cluster through the deeply cold winter. I wished the girls well for the next few months. as I closed them up. Both hives had put away and sealed up plenty of stored honey, capped with a thin layer of beeswax, so I hoped I had done enough in preparation to help them through the months ahead, mindful that to look after bees is only to help them here and there, as they know exactly what they’re doing.

I won’t wear a bee suit for the few minutes that it takes for me to lift the roof off today. I’m not opening the brood box, as I have no business disturbing the frames at this point in the year. I just want to check them to see that all is well. The bees lack energy, everything they have is to keep their Queen warm, and they are tucked away in a cluster, deep in the hive and unless I annoy them, then they’ll leave me alone. Just lifting the roof, I will leave what is called the crown board in place to keep the warmth in. This is a board that covers the frames inside the hive, a lid if you like, but with a small hole cut into it to allow the bees to venture up, usually to a feeding box if you have placed one. Feeders are only for syrup, and the weather is too cold for this as the bees can’t dehydrate it in winter.

I take a deep smell of the hive through the hole. It is warm and sweet. The hive is very much alive.

I check the upturned pouch of fondant that covers the hole in the crown board, dripping a little onto the brood box frames beneath, enticing the workers to climb up and take if they need to. It appears that they have taken a little over the last month, but not much. This is the same for both of the hives, confirming that they have stored a decent amount of honey for the winter, in addition to the reserves we left them. As guardians of these colonies, we must only take what is spare, as the honey belongs to them.

The weather has been unremitting here, frosts, rain that has never seemed to stop and then the gales. The wind this week blew with such a force that an elderly horse chestnut tree has been cleaved in two by an invisible force, and a magnificent old copper beech that had been propped up and nursed into shape with an old piece of stone masonry for decades, finally gave in and bowed to the wind. John has been surprised for years that it’s still standing. He is the man who has spent the best part of forty years as guardian of the grounds of the estate. He knows every tree that is here, and as far as I know has only ever killed one by accident, the result of an afternoon’s work of vigorous pruning that the yew didn’t agree with. Its stump stands over three metres high, surrounded by elderberry bushes, brambles and burrs.

Yesterday’s gales were magnificent, blowing at over eighty miles per hour, gusting in all directions at once. The willows bent sideways as I watched from the kitchen window, where it must be said I have one of the most magnificent views I could wish for. A landscaped parkland of towering cypress, oaks, pines and centuries-old yew hedging frame the lawns that stretch out to the statue of a large Great Dane. Here is the little patch where the Hen of the Woods grows on old buried oak roots. Birch boletus cluster here in September, along with Black Trompettes and occasionally Penny Buns. Here are the clusters of wild leaves where I can find common vetch, ground elder, wild sorrel and dandelion leaves throughout the year, then on towards the small wooden bridge that leads through a gap in the yew to the secret garden. In a previous century, there was a tea garden here, hidden behind these tall hedges. Long gone now, though the stone steps are still there, broken over time, another lost part of the grand old pile that once stood here, lost to fire. We’d like to plant another one day, to revisit what was once here, and luckily Camellia Sinensis or more simply ‘tea’ grows well here in England as do camomile, verbena and chrysanthemum which all make a fine brew..

I love the yews, the tightly knitted leaves that form smooth, straight, deep green lines of hedging, and the omnipresent threat of yew poisoning that most of us aren’t even aware of. So deadly, that a careless sprig pulled away with an outstretched hand and chewed might put you in hospital on dialysis for a month. And then it is likely you’ll die. Don’t burn your cuttings either as the smoke will do dreadful things to you, and don’t think that the tantalising orangy-red berries should be used for jam either (and if you decide to double-check what I say, I’m sure you’ll find that there are recipes online for yew berry tart and yew berry jam, perfect for the foolhardy) but know this. The flesh of these pretty pale berries is the only part of the yew that you have any chance of dealing with without the likelihood of death. The seeds will quickly put an end to your jam-making days. You take your chance.

Yew is a tree that grows for hundreds of years, symbolic of everlasting life and rebirth, held sacred by Druids and is found in every churchyard in England, but is also one that might end your days quite swiftly. Associated with death and the journey of the soul from this life to the next, for thousands of years it was sacred to Hecate the ancient Greek Goddess of Death and was said to purify the dead as they entered the underworld of Hades. Cheery.

I walked into a thick branch of yew pollen last summer by accident as I was out in the woods, pushing my way through the trees, clouding everything around me in a pale yellow dust. I was convinced I was going to die.

I didn’t.

Ignoring all of the the signs of imminent danger, I walked the length of the driveway in the high winds underneath the whipping low branches of the lime trees on one side of the track, and the imposing horse-chestnut trees on the other, now stripped of conkers, just their bony branches standing firm to the wind. They stand in regimented lines, bordering the fields, for the half mile or so that takes you down to the wrought iron gates, where the carved eagles keep silent watch from atop their stone pillars. I walked cautiously I’ll admit, keeping an eye on what might fall, my ears sharpened for any cracking sounds. One of the conker trees had lost most of its limbs and they lay across the path, its trunk split in two by the wrenching of the wind. Thick boughs lay broken across the track, the split wood, a bright ivory against the gloom of the late winter afternoon standing out against the dark muddy green of the gnarled bark. Pale yellow and muted green lichens cover the trunk as it lays in the rain and dirt on the gravel, waiting for the chainsaw, then it’s for us to stack the logs in the woodpile for charcoal making when spring arrives.

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For 2024

After almost one year here on Substack and nearly one hundred essays, for 2024 I’ll be changing this publication to one newsletter every week, To give this more structure, I will now publish every Sunday, so you’ll know when to expect my new words. There will be two free pieces per month and two for my paid subscribers.

There will most likely be some ad-hoc content here and there, a video, a recipe, or perhaps something else.

Also as I promised you last month, I will start serialising ‘A Story of a Year’.

This will be published in the form of one chapter every month, twelve in total, and will begin later in January. This is a ‘book’ that will take you with me on a journey through the year.

What I began here one year ago as a complete unknown, has taken off in a way that I’m truly astonished by. That every day more and more of you come here to subscribe to my words is truly amazing. I can only thank you.

I hope you will all continue to come here to read my words and I thank you for being my readers.

Until Sunday,

William