Page 7 of A Forever Home at Honey Bee Croft

‘Did you see the sunrise this morning?’ Bertie asked as he joined us. ‘I took this photo of the hives.’

He handed me his phone, showing the silhouetted hives backed by a stunning violet and gold sunrise and it instantly soothed me.

‘That’s beautiful. Can you send me it?’

‘Already done it. Got to run. Catch you later.’ He gave a low whistle to call Barnum and the pair of them raced towards the farmhouse.

‘I’d best get to the bees and let you two get on,’ I said.

‘Think about taking that break,’ Sharon said. ‘And don’t let the short notice put you off because I know for a fact that Mary’s holiday cottage is available.’

I raised my eyebrows as I glanced from her to Ian. ‘That’s very convenient. Did you two plan this?’

She laughed. ‘No. I wouldn’t be that presumptuous. Mary’s selling the house, but she wants to give it a lick of paint and do a few small repairs first, so it’s available for friends and family until the decorators can fit her in. We loved it, didn’t we, Ian? We think you will too.’

‘It was great,’ Ian agreed. ‘We’d have been tempted to make it our home, but we don’t want to be that far away, especially now.’

He put his arm around Sharon’s shoulders and they exchanged smiles, making me wonder what was going on.

‘Bertie and Cheryl are having a baby,’ Sharon said, her voice full of excitement.

‘Aw, that’s fantastic news. Please tell them congratulations from me.’

A shadow fell over us and I glanced upwards. It was unseasonably warm this morning with a pale blue sky and gentle sunshine, but the forecast was for a temperature drop this afternoon with strong winds moving down from the north. The gathering clouds certainly supported that. Hive inspections were best avoided in cold, windy and wet weather. Bad weather could make the bees ill-tempered and there was also potential for harming the colony so I only ever did my checks when it was pleasant.

‘Time to check on the bees before the weather turns,’ I said, standing up.

‘Promise me you’ll consider taking a break before spring arrives,’ Sharon said as she hugged me once more. ‘It’ll do you good.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

I returned to the van and set off along the track, deeper into the farm towards Honey Bee Croft – the name Mum had given to the field where the hives were kept. As I passed the adjacentwildflower meadow, Sharon’s suggestion about taking a break nudged at me. I’d love that so much but where would I find the time to even squeeze in a weekend away? I ran through a list in my head of my many tasks for today and across the weekend, trying not to feel overwhelmed by how much work I had on. How much work Ialwaysseemed to have on.

I worked from home as a freelance accountant. I’d started out at a small company in Cheltenham but, after it was confirmed that Mum had a rapidly progressing type of motor neurone disease with short life expectancy, I made the decision to set up on my own so that I could be at home as Mum’s condition deteriorated. Now, with Mum gone and Dad in a care home, I was struggling to find enough hours in the day to keep on top of my job, look after the house, see to the bees and visit Dad in The Larks, and it was only going to get worse. The approach of spring meant more time with the bees and, before I knew it, I’d have the garden at Dove Cottage to attend to. With a large lawn to the front, one five times the size out the back, shrubs, flower borders, planters and hanging baskets, keeping my dad’s pride and joy in tiptop condition was no mean feat. Cutting the lawn had been Damon Speight’s job so, in theory, that was one less task for me, but I’d prefer he didn’t do it. He’d likely be in touch very soon, confirming the date for the first cut of the season. Could I tell him no? He wouldn’t be happy, I’d feel bad about taking my business away from him and the last thing I needed was to add to my task list, but I couldn’t be doing with a repeat of the back end of last year so maybe it was best to sever those ties.

A few months after I’d moved back home, Damon had turned up to mow the lawn for the first time that year. I’d recognised him from school and I knew our mums were friends – former nurses who’d worked on the same hospital ward together – so I’d said hello. If I was around any time he visited, I passed the timeof day with him and he used to sayWe should go out for a drink sometime and catch up properly.I’d fobbed him off at first –I’m just settling back in, I’m busy building my business, Mum’s poorly and I don’t like to leave her– but he never stopped asking. Mum used to wind me up that he had a little crush on me but I laughed that off, telling her he barely knew me and he was just an old acquaintance curious to catch up on the years that had passed. Turned out she’d been right about him.

I parked by the entrance to Honey Bee Croft, opened the double doors at the back of the van and pulled on my protective clothing – a white all-in-one beesuit tucked into wellington boots and a pair of gloves – before picking up my smoker and the large cleaning caddy containing my tools, matches and some additional smoker fuel. I’d cleaned everything I needed before coming out this morning and had added fuel to my smoker – wood chips, broken pieces of pinecones and scraps of paper – saving me a couple of tasks on site, although I’d only need the smoker if I opened the hives, which was probably unnecessary today.

My winter visits were fairly quick, the purpose being to make sure the bees were safely overwintering. There were two main tasks. The first was hefting, which meant lifting the hive off the ground to check the weight. A heavy hive I could barely lift meant the supers – the boxes which housed the honey stores in frames – were full, giving the colony plenty of food for energy. If I could lift the hive easily, I’d need to feed the hive with sugar syrup.

The second task was to clear the hive entrances of any dead bees. Most people who were unfamiliar with beekeeping knew that hives had queens and worker bees but what they usually didn’t realise was that there was a hierarchy of jobs for the worker bees which they gradually worked their way up with age, moving from hive to field. Although, as life expectancy was up tosix weeks in a busy summer, it was a speedy progression through the ranks. One of the hive jobs was undertaker bee, responsible for removing dead larvae and bees to prevent disease. In the winter, when flying time was extremely limited, the undertaker bees might only travel as far as the hive entrance with the dead and the bodies could build up and cause blockages. A poke with a stick soon cleared it but it could lead to an encounter with an angry guard bee, hence the need for the beesuit.

When I’d completed my checks, I returned to the van, loaded up my equipment and removed my beesuit.

Mum had never joined us at the hives when we were working – hated being enclosed within a beesuit – but she sometimes accompanied us to Honey Bee Croft and sat on the wooden bench at the edge of the field. She often came on her own too, loving simply being at one with nature, taking in the spectacular views across the hives and surrounding fields. Whenever I looked at the bench, I pictured her there, smiling contentedly. When she died, we’d had a plaque made, playing with her name.

The bees gave her joy. She gave us joy. She was Joy

I returned to the field, ran my fingers over the plaque and whispered, ‘Hi, Mum,’ before sitting down and breathing in the fresh country air. In contrast to Dove Cottage, Honey Bee Croft only held happy memories for me, spanning back over twenty-two years.

Dad became a beekeeper by accident. Carter, an old friend of his, had kept ten hives at the farm and Dad, a retired journalist, was writing an article about beekeeping for a magazine. He visited the hives to find out more and take photos and, by the end of that session, he’d got what he needed for his article and he’d found himself a new hobby. He regularly helped out after that and, when Carter moved out of the area when I was ten,Dad took on full ownership. Over time he’d replaced the original hives and added another ten. He’d never been particularly interested in doing anything with the honey – it was the art of beekeeping he loved – so Mum had taken on that aspect, supplying jars of honey and delicious goodies baked with it to a local farm shop before passing that responsibility to me when she fell ill. Although I enjoyed the baking, my real passion had been using beeswax to create skincare products – something I’d been working on for a little over a year at that point. I’d imagined adding more hives and waving goodbye to accountancy as my business took off, but life had other plans for me and I’d needed to cast that dream aside.

Beekeeping had made my dad so happy and I loved how he’d shared that passion with Mum and me. My favourite photos back at Dove Cottage were one of Dad in his beesuit with a ten-year-old me beside him in a custom-made miniature version and another of us in our suits taken eight years ago when I was twenty-four. Back then, I’d been happily married, Mum was in good health and Dad’s memory was intact. I was so glad I had those photographs because those happy days often felt like another life, so very long ago.

When Dad went into The Larks eighteen months ago, Ian and Sharon had been concerned that it might be too much for me to keep the hives running, but there was no way I could hang up my beesuit. It wasn’t just because beekeeping held a strong connection to my dad. It was because I loved it as much as he had. I loved the bees and the incredible work they did, the sounds, the smells, being outdoors and doing my bit for the environment. And the truth was that I needed it. Without the bees to look after, my life was in danger of being nothing but a never-ending pattern of work, visit Dad, work some more, sleep, repeat. Tending to the hives was my escapism and this beautifulfield peppered with wildflowers was my sanctuary. Without it, I feared I’d break.

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