The coldest months

Bees, cider and a secret.

I wasn’t inclined to put on a bee suit for my last two trips to the hives.

The bees are now clustered deep in their brood box, uninterested in my observations as long as I’m quiet and respectful. Early last week, mindful that the weather was about to change for the worst, heavy frosts now settled early in the morning, taking the temperature here in rural Berkshire to minus eight degrees Celsius. The trees almost glow, burnished in the cold early morning sun. White frost-covered lichen, scaly shades of green, cling to the old crusted bark of the apple trees, crystals of ice that form shining ridges on the old scars on the branches. In the southern corner of our orchard where the bees live, the trees are empty but for a handful of the last of the shrivelled fruits, what is left of what the birds have taken for themselves. The fat hornets that lived in the ivy-topped wall have now disappeared. Wasps have now either died or hidden themselves in the ground under the Bramley tree where they nested through summer, stinging the careless as they trampled through the foxtails. The long wild sedge from summer, now mown short in neat circles around the base of the trees, cut before the long stalks fall and decay. Remains of the last of the windfalls, slippery as you walk over them, rotting back into the earth, giving goodness back to the soil. The only fertiliser that has ever been used here.

Deep frosts

A dozen or so curious bees came to investigate when I finally removed the sticky feeder trays that were placed and topped up with syrup during autumn. They are empty now, licked clean. They have no use for liquid feed from now on as the weather is too cold for them to dehydrate it. They have plenty of honey stored from their year of work, so anything I give them at this point is a bonus for them.

Just in case.

The guard bees, ever dutiful to the colony, came to check what I was doing as I lifted off their roof, taking care to leave the crown board in place to prevent the cold air from rushing into the hive. I watched through a small rectangular hole known as a porter escape, to see the bees still busy crawling around their frames. They sounded busy, with a great hum and a blast of hot air fanning out from inside the hive. They like to keep themselves at around a balmy thirty-five Celsius during the coldest months, clustered in the shape of a rugby ball around the queen. Their hive entrances closed with mouse guards, preventing any lodgers from moving into their warm cedar home. This would devastate the colony. They lose the will to live if this happens, so every precaution must be taken. The aim is to help them through the winter, ensuring the survival of the queen. I give each hive a one-kilo bag of sugar fondant, a little hole cut into the pouch, then placed upside down over the small porter escape, enabling the bees to climb up and take from the pouch back down to their frames, whilst keeping the seal tight to preserve the temperature. There must also be ventilation, or the hive might grow mould, so the bottom board is taken away. They have to work hard to keep themselves warm.

Our two hives

Late one afternoon, I make my way again to see how much fondant they have taken over the week. This will be my guide for the coming months as to how much they eat and if I must replace it. I listen at the entrance carefully to see if I hear movement. It is quiet. I am nervous. As the light falls, I am mindful to be quick. I unstrap the hives, remove the roof and check the fondant pouch. About half has been taken down by each hive. I lift the pouch out of the way, peering in through the small hole. Where usually there is much activity at this little opening, all is very quiet. A gentle hum from somewhere underneath the wooden boxes tells me that they are well. They won’t come to see me now. It is late in the day. It is too cold to leave the cluster. The next hive is much the same. There is a faint noise that I can’t place, but it comes from within. It is the sound of life. A piping noise, probably the queen demanding food and warmth.

Winter

I close the roof and reattach the bright orange ratchet strap, adjusting the tension to the maximum that I can squeeze out of it before closing the brass grip. A failsafe that prevents the hive from clattering apart if an errant roe-deer or nosy muntjac comes for a scratch against it. There are many here. I saw baby muntjac last week in the dark on the drive with their mothers. The size of a small terrier, awkward as they walked, oblivious to me really. They just stood and looked at me before walking off into the trees, with that unwieldy gait that all muntjac have.

It is almost dark now as I head back. There are no lights here. Just the silhouettes of old oaks looming against the darkening sky. I walk back toward the gates of the house alongside a tall squared-off yew hedge that runs the length of this part of the driveway, yew that has likely grown here for longer than I’ve been alive. A badger barks in the distance. The old granite entrance pillars of the house that once stood here refulgent in the moonlight. Winter darkness descends almost instantly out here, though, in the distance, the lights of the house guide me back to the warmth of the kitchen.

I take a detour to the barn where I keep two hundred litres of cider that was pressed in October. This is my winter project. The creation of hundreds of litres of organic raw apple cider vinegar, which all being well should start to become ready in late spring. Some are a blend of fruits from different trees, others from single varieties. There is also a demijohn of Perry that I hope to make a balsamic from over time. All have now finished their first fermentation. The glass airlocks have stopped bubbling, and a great crust of golden sediment has sunk to the bottom of each of the large vessels. It will be time soon enough to rack off the sediment and expose the cider to air, starting the change in the process of conversion to acetic acid. I tested the alcohol content with a hydrometer a week or so ago, and it tells me that it is around five per cent. This would be excellent for drinking, though I’m not much one for cider. Misspent youth.

The result of over a tonne of heritage apples crushed into juice. Cardboard boxes of glass bottles are stacked neatly, labelled in almost indecipherable scrawl. Winter Gem, Egremont Russet, Sunset, Blenheim Orange and Jupiter. All different blushed colours of pink, golden and rust. Thick, cloudy and fragrant.

We are so lucky to be able to look after these trees.

What will one day become ‘Ruby’s Wood’

We have had oak, beech and hazel saplings delivered to us, and in honour of our colleague John’s old dog, a beautiful Lurcher named Ruby, who left us earlier this year we will plant her a woodland. She ran free here and was buried by John under a huge old oak on top of a ridge. It will now become a magical place for her and other lost friends. We will call it Ruby’s Wood. It will in years, decades and centuries to come, become part of what stands here already, though I’m mindful that these will grow to be huge trees in which I shall never sit in their shade. However, I was here to plant them in their place.

Also, it just might hold a wonderful secret. But that would be telling.

Until later this week,

William