The challenges facing pollinators are very real – but Andrew Livingston, the son of beekeepers, has a jaundiced view of the little stingy guys
I appear to have a bit of a bee in my bonnet this month. Speaking with beekeeper Anne Ashford about the horrors of the Asian hornet inspired me – not only has it been a hard year for the little lads (and queens), but I was reminded of a bee-related incident from my childhood. Plus I’m never one to pass up the opportunity for squeezing in the odd un-bee-lievably bad pun …
I cannot stress enough how important bees are for agriculture. We have around 270 species in the UK – and only one, the honeybee, is kept by those fanatics in the big white suits also known as beekeepers. I’ll come back to them.
Studies have shown that crop yields for farmers are increased by the presence of bees – even the shelf life and nutritional values have been shown to improve. The Red Mason Bee is used by commercial apple growers to pollinate orchards: they are 120 times more efficient at pollinating than the honeybee.
It’s not been an easy year for the bee. Many of the UK species are now endangered – and that’s before we consider the new threat of the Asian hornet flying over from France. The weather has been particularly poor: bees are not wet weather fans, and we had a mild, wet winter, followed by a wet spring and then a cold wet summer … Basically, it’s been wet all year!
The British Beekeeper Association and the National Bee Unit (yes, that’s a real thing. I’m not pollen your leg) sent starvation alerts out to beekeepers, encouraging them to check and feed their bees with syrup if required.
My parents have kept bees for years – they also told me it’s been hard year. They have four hives, but only one is active and they have been finding it hard to locate swarms to replace the colonies due to the low bee activity. I genuinely love pollinators – but as the son of beekeepers, I secretly found this good news. I don’t wish ill on the bees, but growing up with hobby beekeeper parents isn’t easy … especially when they rope you in to help.
Don’t anger the bees
I clearly remember stepping off the school bus at our home in the village of Hooke when my stepmother, wearing her full bee regalia, stopped me in the garden with a firm ‘Andrew!’. She had another bee mask in her hand and it was clear she either wanted me to help her in the vegetable patch apiary or she was about to scream ‘EN GARDE!’ and have a quick fence on the front lawn.
Unfortunately, it was the former.
So, out we went – stepmother in full regalia, me in just a half-suit, the big bee hat and top thrown on over my school uniform. It was as if the beekeeping budget promptly ran out when it came to the second suit.
We got to the hive and I was told the plan: ‘We give them a bit of smoke to keep them calm. You hold the lid and I’ll inspect the bees.’
Sounded easy enough. But you know when you get that feeling that something’s about to go very wrong? Yes. That.
The plan raced through at a rate of knots: the lid was lifted and bees were suddenly flying everywhere through the smoke.
They didn’t seem calm.
In fact, they seemed pretty mad.
I knew something was very wrong when I saw one inside my mask. And then, I felt it. At first, it was just one … then more and more sharp stabbing stings, all over my legs. My black school trousers were no defence from the bee attack.
I started to hop and skip on the spot, still dutifully holding the lid, pleading with my stepmother for more smoke. It was futile. I was too late.
The bees were angry.
I screamed, ‘I’M DONE!’, dropped the lid and began running back to the house, stripping clothes as I went till I was naked doing a couple of laps of the front lawn as I desperately tried to outrun the bees that had chased me.
My stepmother followed the trail of school clothes to eventually find me cowering in my bedroom, still thinking I could hear the buzzing of bees around me. ‘I’m never helping you again. I’ve been stung all over my legs!’
She looked a little guilty. ‘In hindsight, you should probably have changed out of your school uniform … bees don’t like the colour black.’
Me and beekeeping was never meant to bee.
