Sorbets and anarchy

In no particular order

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‘As soon as liberty is complete, it dies in anarchy’

Will Durant 1885 - 1981

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West Berkshire, July 2025

In hindsight, I suppose I’ve always known that I’d need to requeen at least one of the hives this year, something I approach with some trepidation. It’s not to say I’ve not given them plenty of time to do the right thing for themselves, that is to say, at least the ‘right thing’ in my mind, but perhaps not in theirs.

It is said that honey bees can memorise faces, perhaps recognise those who are good to them, faces of those that might bring them syrup when they face lean times at the end of summer when the pollen and nectar flows have come to a end. They are clever creatures, like us they sleep around eight hours a night, their antennas folded, legs tucked up against each other. Some say that they learn to know your voice, and I’ve tried to engage any number of times, telling them about my day, enquiring about theirs, sharing some news as is traditional with beekeeping, but what I’ve learned this last year in my quest to protect and nurture these colonies is that they will do as they wish to, whatever they may think of me.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

I even admire them for it.

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Stubbornness

I have a small Dachshund who is quite possibly the most obstinate creature I’ve ever met, flexible only when it suits her, and even then, hardly, such is her iron will. She will even refuse to do something that she wants just to be headstrong. I firmly believe that bees are very much like sausage dogs and revel in their own stubbornness, even to their detriment, and will do only what they believe is right for themselves, and indeed, who am I to try and tell them otherwise?

This last year, I’ve learned quickly with no mentor, telling myself that I will only gain an understanding of our bees by letting them guide me rather than forcing my human intentions upon them. I was taught to be gentle with them, quiet and respectful, to let them tell me what they might need and only interfere when really needed and on this basis, gone are the weekly inspections; I check them over briefly only once every few weeks at most, learning instead how to read the hive by observing their behaviour when I sometimes sit and watch them go about their work.

An odd relationship of attempting to coerce wild creatures to go your way.

I’ve known that my instincts have been correct this season on a number of occasions, despite what the unfriendly bee-forums I post on have said. When I’ve seen our girls behave differently than expected, it made me question their motives. Lack of pollen going into one of the hives made me wonder if all was well at one point, swarm signs that indeed I was too late to correct and a ferocity that once again made me question whether indeed beekeeping was all it was made out to be. ,

I told you the last time that I wrote about bees, that I’d left one of the colonies closed for a month after leaving them in their ‘hopelessly queenless’ state to raise the small grub that I left in its cell as their new monarch. I entrusted them to a process that bees usually get right, and I opened the hive last week to look for the neatly laid pattern of eggs and larvae that would show me that it had been a success and that they indeed had requeened themselves. I was confident that this was so as most evenings at sundown, I would sit next to the hives in the grass, watching the lazy, fuzzy black and yellow traffic. The ins and outs, their little legs clambering over one another to bring in the bright little balls of pollen to feed the brood.

They were calm.

Queenright, I told myself.

I counted the days on my bee life-cycle chart, intent on my belief that the new queen had hatched, her exoskeleton hardening before she took her maiden flight to get her bearings, to fly to where the drones congregate up high in the sky, returning to the hive to start laying her eggs, though I was wrong.

Anarchy

On opening the hive, as I took off the roof, I could see through the crown board that a wasp was busy in the honey frames. No self respecting colony of workers protecting their queen and their home would allow such a thing, and on inspection, as I lifted out the frames where I might expect to see beautifully layed out, pattened hexagonal cells of larvae, thousands of brood cells capped in wax, all I could find were drone cells. The queen had failed for whatever reason. Perhaps her subordinates took an instant dislike to her, perhaps she got eaten by a bird whilst flying or lost her way home. The hive was now in anarchy. A dwindling nest of drone-laying workers,’ hopelessly queenless’, that now would fade away as no more workers could be laid. They’d had their chance to recover, and now I knew that I must intervene to save the few girls that remained. I would need to perform a shake out, dismantle the hive and force the inhabitants to beg their way into the strong colony next to them so I could then make a split.

Bug-eyed drones

The drones would fly away, the worker bees who brought pollen and nectar as gifts would be gladly accepted by the other colony and the false queens would likely be refused entry or would have to adjust their mindsets in the presence of a strong queen pheromone and stop being unruly, or they would die outside in the long grass.

I placed an order for a new young queen to be sent by post, as leaving it to them by inserting another frame of brood to a small nucleus to see if they would try again to raise a queen on their own was a gamble and left me very little time in the beekeeping year to encourage them to raise a colony that would be strong enough to survive winter.

Putting on my bee suit, each time over the last year, I have bulked myself out underneath with multiple layers of clothing far too ridiculous to really be considered on a hot day, but after finding myself faced with a dozen stings to my face, neck and hands one miserable day last autumn, needs must. Three millimetres is the depth needed for a bee sting to penetrate and with a friend rushed to the emergency room this week, her hand swollen up like a balloon, with intravenous antibiotics to prevent cellulitis, I’m certainly taking no chances. The thing with bees is that they are intelligent. They know exactly where to find a weak spot, so if that is a seam in a glove, that is where they’ll sting you, or they know to push your veil up against your skin to sting you in the neck. It has to be said that they are curious little creatures, gentle and beautiful to work over and observe, but you must play according to their rules.

With this in mind, and what with the temperature being well into the low thirties, I hesitantly pull on a tight pair of wellington boots, strapped tightly at the calf to prevent any persistant invaders from burrowing down to my socks, a hooded top, pulled up over my cap to protect the side of my head, two pairs of gloves, one rubber and one goatskin and my spectacles, for even despite them instantly fogging up, rivlets of sweat on the glass, I cant see without them. I’ve zipped up the suit and double checked the toggles for any slight gaps that would allow them to maraud their way into my suit. Don’t think I’m being overcautious here as I’ve once ended up with half a dozen bees inside my face veil, wandering with intent around through my beard and over the frames of my glasses as they found a tiny broken tooth in a zip that they were keen to enter to sting me.

It is astonishingly hot and I’ve not even left the house.

In their defence, it must be said that this year, both colonies have so far been very well behaved, though it has taken me a while to relax once again as I work them. They overwintered well, and trouble has been at a minimum. I’ve not been stung this season, though I’ve not really let them have the opportunity to get through my armour so it’s not for the want of trying. Bees will always let you know that they mean trouble. Often, one ping to the side of the head is enough of a warning to help persuade you to move away. If you are mid inspection with fifty thousand bees in an open hive in front of you, you need to learn to hold your nerve, complete the tasks and close them up calmly if they become feisty. There will always be a persistent guard bee who will take exception to your efforts, one that will follow you for one hundred metres whilst attempting to sting the tip of your nose or your ear, and this is exactly the reason why I wear a hooded top pulled up over my head. Even on the hottest day of the year.

I know what I must do.

Brutal measures

I first forgive myself for being about to make the anarchic hive homeless. The hive feels light as I heft it to get a feel of what I’m about to lift, and as there is no honey stored, just a confused mess of laying bees, lazy drones and a few humiliated workers, it is easy to pick up. I carry the hive through the thick long grass, setting it down in a patch in the middle of the trees. It is hot between the apple trees, I’m uncomfortable and wary, but the weather is forecast this way for the foreseeable and I need to get on with the job. I lift off the roof, exposing the frames where the honey is made. On this occasion, the ten frames of comb are dry and empty. I lift each one out and shake out the bees into the long grass where they will work out what they need to do next, placing the empty frames into a box, working through each of the thirty hexagonally drawn wax frames in the boxes. There are half a dozen deep frames in the brood box that are thickly covered in crawling bees, bug eyed drones mainly if I look closer, each frame carefully lifted out, prized apart from the next, sticky with propolis, picked up and shaken with a sharp downward jerk to drop the bees in the trodden down grass at my feet. This is called a shakeout and is the last resort of the beekeeper in a last ditch attempt to rescue a dwindling hive

A frame of sporadically laid drone brood.

When the boxes are empty and the frames are safely packed away from any stragglers that might want to return, I brush out the boxes with my soft bee brush, then one by one I carry them away, stacking them up under the low branches of a hazel tree that looms over the old brick wall where the gravestones stand, where no bees can follow me as the leaves would prove too difficult to navigate through, and I turn them upside down and leave them for now. I walk back to where the hive previously stood on the stone platform and remove the hive legs and its base, so the spot is empty.

Nothing for them to try to navigate to that they will remember, so acute is their sense of direction. There is a futile attempt to circle the ratchet strap that is coiled at the edge of their old spot but they soon realise that there is nothing for them there.

A cluster of bees have now settled at the entrance to the other hive and are drifting to and fro in a three dimensional dance at the door. The sentries from inside crawl out and line up at the entrance block like nightclub doormen, checking their potential new guests over before letting them in or making them wait.

With the hive spot now empty, I pack up my things, sweltering under my suit, and as I remove my gloves, what seems like a cupful of sweat drips out from inside each gloved hand as I pull the rubber away from my fingers. Despite appearances, I’ve given the shaken out hive the best chance of integration with the familiar beacon next to them; those that are useful will be accepted, those that won’t follow the rules, not so.

You mustn’t think this is a sad moment, as the next step will be to create a new colony, an opportunity to use the strong colony to donate some of their bees to form what is known as a ‘split’, a new second colony to place back in the empty hive and with the addition of a bought in Queen. I will take out frames of eggs, larvae and brood, along with a frame or two of pollen and stores, enough to begin a new dominion, and will introduce a new matriarch, one that I've ordered from a small bee farm in the mountains of Wales. She will arrive by post in a small plastic cage plugged with sugar fondant along with a dozen attendants who worship and feed her throughout her journey. As soon as I receive her, on which I know will be the hottest day of the year, I shall put on my jumper, cap and suit once again and swelter in the afternoon sun, and attempt yet again to coerce wild creatures to do my bidding, if indeed they feel like being cooperative.

That will be the next task.

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Sorbet

As the weather here continues to be unbearably hot, I spent a couple of mornings last week churning smooth fruit sorbets. Ever the fan of anything ice cream or sorbet related, so much so that I bought an eighties classic Walls Vienetta last week purely out of nostalgia and just to marvel at its swirls and folds.

When I first tried to give up smoking in my late twenties I found that the best replacement for any ill-timed nicotine cravings at work were best addressed with a plastic pot sneaked out of the pot wash filled with a few scoops of sorbet traded from the pastry section for a slice of foie gras terrine.

Gooseberry with elderflower and a raspberry sorbet

My love of a scoop of almost anything gelato-related stands firm to this day. I’ve already shared my rhubarb ripple with you here, though I’m not indeed sure if anyone has actually tried to make it. Here I shall share two simple ways to make yourself happy on a very hot day.

The first is a gooseberry and elderflower sorbet, and the second is a smooth, fresh raspberry version. Both are simple, require no particularly obscure ingredients like stabilisers, atomised whatnots, or other peculiarities and both recipes work.

The gooseberry and elderflower makes a smooth, sharp, bright white mixture. It churns very nicely in a machine and will keep its glossy texture in the freezer. The raspberry sorbet uses fresh fruit, though you could certainly use frozen. It is strained of pips and churns itself to a soft velvety smooth texture, once again keeping its consistency when frozen.

Both of these work best when churned in an ice cream machine, though at a push you could resort to the old fashioned freeze and whisk technique. That way though, will encourage ice crystals to form and so the end result, whilst very soothing and special, will lack the soft mouth feel of something that has spent an hour churning.

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Gooseberry and elderflower sorbet

You will need

250g gooseberries

250g granulated sugar

300 ml water

1 tablespoon of glucose syrup

A good splash of elderflower cordial

Juice of half a lemon

How to

Place the gooseberries, sugar, glucose and water in a saucepan and gently cook the fruits until they burst. A gentle squish with the back of a spoon will help them on their way.

When the berries have collapsed, turn off the heat and add the elderflower cordial and the lemon juice. Let this mixture cool down and then place it in the fridge for an hour or two. This way the flavour gets to develop, so be patient.

Strain the mixture through a fine sieve to remove any bits of gooseberry.

Put the mixture into a chilled ice cream machine and churn it until it’s smooth and frozen.

It is ready so be quick, as it will melt.

Scoop it out into a container eating as you go, and let it sit in the freezer for a short while to firm up. Hot kitchens are the enemy of anything involving ice.

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Raspberry sorbet

You will need

700g Raspberries

200ml water

1 tablespoon glucose syrup

300g granulated sugar

Juice of half a lemon

How to

Place the sugar, water and glucose in a saucepan and heat to dissolve the sugar, then take it off the heat.

Let the syrup cool completely and then let it chill in the fridge for an hour.

Put the raspberries in a food processor or Vitamix and blitz them with the chilled syrup, then pour the mixture through a fine sieve to remove all of the pips.

Raspberry pips get stuck in your teeth and will ruin your day if you let them.

When the mixture has been strained, pour it into the ice cream machine and churn until smooth and velvety.

Now it is ready, transfer the sorbet to a container and place it in the freezer.

When you can wait no more, scoop it out into bowls along with the gooseberry and give yourself brain freeze.

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Sea trout and fennel pollen gravadlax

Next time will be a piece for those of you who can find my work behind my paywall and amongst other ramblings on bees and farmlife, I’ll share my technique for a Sea trout and fennel pollen ‘gravadlax’ and will embark on the next stage of my pickled walnut recipe that I started a few weeks ago. The nuts at this stage should be shrivelled and dark from the brine and a week or so spent drying in the sun.

Much like a British holidaymaker.

Until then

William