Honey

Bee stings, scrumping and Wellington boots on a hot summer's day

The first frames of waxy-capped golden honeycomb are ready to be harvested.

In the heat of well over thirty degrees wearing my full length bee suit, a pair of fetching yellow rubber gloves just to insulate myself a little more, and my Wellington boots, as when I got dressed to go to the hives I had forgotten to bring my trainers, and not wanting to risk wearing sandals and with the heat of the afternoon making me question my decision to open the hives in the first place, it was also too far to walk back to the house to get them. My fine neoprene-lined wellies had to do. In the full blazing sun of a south-facing orchard.

At least I wouldn’t get stung on the ankle. I might however become a melted mess under my thick, zipped-up suit, fully veiled, my glasses already beaded with sweat on the lenses.

I place a handful of broken pine cone segments into the centre of a small piece of thick cardboard, roll it up, wrap it in crisp brown leaves, then straw and hold it tight. I strike a match, light one end of the plug and let the fire take hold before forcing it into my smoking tool, pushing dry straw into the top of the chamber, shutting the top with a loud metallic click. The spout puffs lazily. I squeeze the bellows of the smoker slowly at first so as not to blow the flames out, then a little faster to give a good smoulder. I don’t want the smoke to be hot, blowing out ash or cinders is not right, as that way we will upset the bees and then most definitely one of us will be getting stung. The smoke must smoulder in a slow, cool, grey steady plume.