I’m trying not to talk. Actually I’m really trying hard not to open my mouth at all. Bees can smell the carbon dioxide in my breath and it can irritate them enough for a closer inspection…by more than one. Here’s me with Ken Ross, a man who wears a number of hats, one of which is that of a Bee-keeper.
Ken’s ensures that I’m all kitted up with full elasticised gloves, flattering white overalls to suit the fuller figure and a large helmet with an expansive netting arrangement. The helmet needs adjusting every now and then.
Ken’s also a Secondary Schoolteacher and I’m trying to listen hard to the wealth of ‘Bee’ information he imparts. He might ask me to hand in an essay by the end of the week. His Italian honey bees have been chosen for their passivity and ability to produce and store honey. There’s no class system here folks.
Every bee has a job to do and the team spirit thrives. The ‘cleaners’ evict troublesome wasps and dispose of stunted bees who haven’t formed properly or died. The drones mate in flight with the Queen and unfortunately lose ‘vital parts’ in the process. The workers keep up a frantic pace. As for the Queen, if she doesn’t perform, like Queens of old in human society, she is executed and replaced. Ken, please don’t ask me to hold that tray!
Ken is the owner of the lovely rustic cottage we’re staying in at the moment and the other night he took us down to a private glow worm grotto on the track behind us. Apart from the occasional grunt of a stag nearby, all was silent and shrouded with inky darkness. Suddenly fairy-like pins of light appeared all around us. We’ve received a jar of Ken’s precious honey, to remind us of golden moments like these.
Happy travelling.
