The number one hive has swarmed. I'm sure of it. There were fewer bees in the supers than there had been, and they had started storing honey in the brood nest instead of cleaning it for the queen to lay. There were several queen cells. I have heard our two local professional beekeepers get into a heated debate about how to deal with queen cells. One favoured the textbook approach, which is that you remove all except one. The books say that the first queen to emerge from her cell will destroy the other potential queens. However, if several queens emerge at much the same time some of them can leave with yet more of your bees in secondary swarms, which are called casts, and removing all except one new queen prevents this. The other beekeeper believed equally strongly that the bees knew better than any human which was the best new queen, and should be left to choose her themselves. My instinct is always not to mess the bees around more than I have to, so I shut them up and left them to it. I have had a crop off this hive already, so while I'd rather they hadn't swarmed it wasn't a complete failure.
My spirits lifted as I experimentally hefted the top super (see below if you have forgotten what this is) on the number two hive. It was very heavy, meaning that the bees probably hadn't swarmed yet, and that I was in with a good chance of harvesting that honey. I removed the supers and opened up the body of the beehive. The first frame had a sealed queen cell on it. The second frame didn't seem to have any queen cells. At that point I looked to one side, and there was a pile of bees on the grass about 2m away.
It was a swarm that had landed on the ground, which was odd. Normally they like to hang from a branch. I never heard or saw them arrive. They had certainly not emerged from my hives while I was in the apiary. A swarm in flight is unmistakable, the air becoming thick with swirling bees like a miniaturised cloud of starlings, and the noise is stronger and more intense than the normal level of buzzing. I don't know if they had come out of my hives earlier, and been hanging in a tree before plopping on to the ground for some reason, or if they were just passing and smelt the honey because I had the hives open.
I shut the open hive down again rather quickly, remembering to put an excluder board (see below) under the full super. I would really like that honey if I can get it. Then I put the nuc box (see below) on the ground next to the pile of bees with its entrance towards them. Some went in, but there was no concerted move, and after a bit the ones that had gone in came out again. A different approach was clearly required, so I turned the box upside down and put it over the heap of bees, the floor temporarily acting as the roof. I watched them for a while, then decided that while I would like the swarm I wasn't prepared to spend the whole day watching them to follow them if they absconded, and left them to it. They were still there at lunchtime and as I'd hoped most had crawled up into the body of the nuc, so with care I inverted the box, put the lid on, and left them in the position I would like them to live if they stay. They didn't all hurry back to their original spot on the grass, so the queen must have been in the box by that stage. They were still in residence at 5pm, and were in the process of killing a wasp that must have been trying to invade their hive. This suggested a growing proprietorial feeling on their part, so I put the entrance block (see below) in to reduce the size of the entrance to a couple of centimetres, making it easier for them to defend against wasps, and gave them some sugar syrup. Swarms don't always stay, even after you have put them in a hive, but if they are still there by this time tomorrow I shall regard them as permanent residents.
A newly emerged swarm is normally docile, having eaten all the honey they can fly with before they start. However, a swarm that has been wandering around for a couple of days can be hungry and consequently bad tempered. Feeding them is a good idea in case they are hungry, and also to take advantage of their instinctive tendency to make new honeycomb. I gave this swarm new frames with flat sheets of beeswax foundation in it because that was all I had, but they should make beautiful new comb on the frames very quickly, as long as they have food to give them the energy to do it.
I didn't try to finish inspecting the number two hive, because with the excitement of a swarm in the apiary I thought it might all get too lively, but I shall have to do it tomorrow. Once the bees start trying to swarm it is a source of slight continuing anxiety until the situation has been resolved one way or another. Even if they end up swarming, alongside the disappointment that I didn't manage it better there will be a sort of creeping relief that now the misfortune I was trying to avert has come to pass I can stop worrying about it.
Beekeeping glossary
A super is a shallow box that sits on top of the beehive, which the queen cannot enter to lay eggs. The bees use it to store surplus honey, if there is any. Honey for human consumption is taken from the supers. An excluder board is a metal grid that the queen can't squeeze through, but the smaller worker bees can. It is used to keep the queen out of the super. A nuc box is a deep but narrow half-width beehive, which a queen lives in with a small colony. If the colony prospers it will be moved into a full-size hive in due course. An entrance block is a wooden bar with a small hole in it, that fits into the large opening at the bottom of the beehive to reduce the size of the entrance.
Meanwhile, I have passed up the chance to be nominated to be an Olympic torch bearer. A last-minute invitation to apply came from a charity I do some voluntary work for. I toyed with the idea, on the basis that life is more interesting if you say yes to new things unless there is a compelling reason to say no, but decided there was a good reason to say no, which was that it was just too silly. The website describing the day of an Olympic torch bearer is hilarious. This is what it said.
A day in the life of a Torchbearer
Carrying the Olympic Flame will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. The Torchbearers will help to shine a light on the best of their communities, as well as having their own moment to shine... Here's a typical day in the life of a Torchbearer...
You wake up in the morning and you’re excited: today’s the day. You have your uniform, you know your position, you’ve told all your friends and family. You leave early so you have plenty of time to reach your pick up location. With closest family and friends alongside, you head off for an experience you will never forget.
As you near the pick up location, you see the other Torchbearers milling around – you start to feel nervous. There are media interviewing people, and the Torch Relay crew are making sure everything runs smoothly.
You easily spot the Torchbearer shuttle bus and get on. As it sets off, the briefing session starts and helps to relax you: the details about how to handle the Torch and how the whole Relay works are pretty straightforward.
Then you’re given the Torch you’ll be carrying. You’ve seen others carrying it in the coverage of the Relay on TV… now you’ve got your own.
You get chatting to some of the other Torchbearers, they’ve got some amazing stories to tell. You tell them what taking part in the Relay means to you too.
Before you know it, you have arrived at your allocated position. You get off the bus and wait. The crowd is excited to see you – they’ve read about you on the website and know you’re something special. They chat to you and want to have their photos taken with you. A motorcyclist appears and helps you into position.
A Torchbearer appears and is moving towards you. As they approach you feel the excitement building…your Flames meet… your Torch is alight.
It is your moment to shine.
You set off with the Flame, with your escort runners beside you. You can hear the cheers of the crowd – it’s overwhelming…
There is a vehicle up ahead – it seems like a hundred cameras are filming you. After a while you start to relax and enjoy the experience. Up ahead you can see your family waving excitedly. Another Torchbearer is waiting for you – they look as nervous as you were when you started. You exchange the Flame and cheer them on. Without realising, someone gently guides you off the road (so the convoy behind doesn’t run you over).
After greeting your family you are picked up again by the shuttle bus. As the rest of the Torchbearers get on the bus you can’t wait to exchange stories about your experience.
You arrive back at the original pick up point, everyone disperses and make their way to the evening celebration site. You want to be with the people that have shared that incredible moment with you. You just want that exhilarating feeling to last forever. You have a story to tell – of a most precious moment in history…
I don't like uniforms, or queues, or being photographed, or sport. I don't like the sound of escort runners at all as I hate running, and I almost never watch television. That seemed enough reasons to be going on with not to ask to be nominated. They probably wouldn't have chosen me anyway, and then my feelings would have been hurt. I tried in vain to imagine my family and friends cheering and waving excitedly, and failed utterly. The sight of me clutching a giant inflammable cheese grater before a sports fest that neither of us intend to watch would not stir the Systems Administrator, who likes rugby union, cricket and Cheltenham, with a nod to the Grand Prix and the Tour de France, none of which are Olympic events.
I did find the hyper tone of the description of the day in the life of an Olympic torch bearer extremely funny, and after a bit realised that it reminded me of Mitch Benn's splendid song parodying a day in the life of a talent show contestant Sing Like an Angel. Check it out, it's a hoot.
As you near the pick up location, you see the other Torchbearers milling around – you start to feel nervous. There are media interviewing people, and the Torch Relay crew are making sure everything runs smoothly.
You easily spot the Torchbearer shuttle bus and get on. As it sets off, the briefing session starts and helps to relax you: the details about how to handle the Torch and how the whole Relay works are pretty straightforward.
Then you’re given the Torch you’ll be carrying. You’ve seen others carrying it in the coverage of the Relay on TV… now you’ve got your own.
You get chatting to some of the other Torchbearers, they’ve got some amazing stories to tell. You tell them what taking part in the Relay means to you too.
Before you know it, you have arrived at your allocated position. You get off the bus and wait. The crowd is excited to see you – they’ve read about you on the website and know you’re something special. They chat to you and want to have their photos taken with you. A motorcyclist appears and helps you into position.
A Torchbearer appears and is moving towards you. As they approach you feel the excitement building…your Flames meet… your Torch is alight.
It is your moment to shine.
You set off with the Flame, with your escort runners beside you. You can hear the cheers of the crowd – it’s overwhelming…
There is a vehicle up ahead – it seems like a hundred cameras are filming you. After a while you start to relax and enjoy the experience. Up ahead you can see your family waving excitedly. Another Torchbearer is waiting for you – they look as nervous as you were when you started. You exchange the Flame and cheer them on. Without realising, someone gently guides you off the road (so the convoy behind doesn’t run you over).
After greeting your family you are picked up again by the shuttle bus. As the rest of the Torchbearers get on the bus you can’t wait to exchange stories about your experience.
You arrive back at the original pick up point, everyone disperses and make their way to the evening celebration site. You want to be with the people that have shared that incredible moment with you. You just want that exhilarating feeling to last forever. You have a story to tell – of a most precious moment in history…
I don't like uniforms, or queues, or being photographed, or sport. I don't like the sound of escort runners at all as I hate running, and I almost never watch television. That seemed enough reasons to be going on with not to ask to be nominated. They probably wouldn't have chosen me anyway, and then my feelings would have been hurt. I tried in vain to imagine my family and friends cheering and waving excitedly, and failed utterly. The sight of me clutching a giant inflammable cheese grater before a sports fest that neither of us intend to watch would not stir the Systems Administrator, who likes rugby union, cricket and Cheltenham, with a nod to the Grand Prix and the Tour de France, none of which are Olympic events.
I did find the hyper tone of the description of the day in the life of an Olympic torch bearer extremely funny, and after a bit realised that it reminded me of Mitch Benn's splendid song parodying a day in the life of a talent show contestant Sing Like an Angel. Check it out, it's a hoot.
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