1/9. A literary beekeeping year at Lumb Bank: a thread by Paviman – half-Polish man of kidneys, letters and bees.
@Lumb_Bank @Arvonfoundation #Bees #Calderdale

2/9 2018: our hives in the Pennine hills have been struggling over the challenging winters. I put an advert in Heb Web seeking pastures new for one of my bee colonies. Helen Meller and the lovely people @Lumb_Bank answer the call.

3/9 Autumn sees me, and my friend Nick, man-handling a hive and several thousand miffed bees down the slippery slopes to their new home. The bees are settled in for the winter, wrapped in their waterproof jacket, sheep wool insulation and plenty of sugar fondant.

4/9 Calderdale spring is heralded by new lambs, arrival of Curlew, and bees emerging to collect pollen and nectar. Given the literary pedigree of the bee (from Homer & Virgil to Shakespeare & Yeats) it seems appropriate the bees are now resident in the old home of Ted Hughes.

5/9 The cloud of COVID darkens the sky. PPE, one day, is exchanged for BPE; bee protective equipment, another. ‘The secret of my health’, said Democritus (who is reputed to have lived to 109), is ‘applying honey inside, and oil outside’. The bees are indeed a welcome tonic.

6/9 Summer. The bees are thriving, their stripey backs betraying their visit to Himalayan Balsam (hated by gardeners, loved by beekeepers). It gives a delicate fragrant honey that stays runny. But, disaster, on a routine inspection - queen cells. The hive is about to swarm!

7/9 Cherchez la femme. A desperate hunt for the queen ensues. After an hour I find her, then kidnap her and three frames of brood to trick the colony into thinking it has swarmed. I destroy all but one queen cell. An anxious wait to see if the remaining bees raise a new queen.

8/9 A time of wild mushrooms and purple hills of heather. Wrzesień, September in Polish, is named after heather. Collecting frames of capped honey, I earn a few stings. As Shakespeare said, ‘He is not worthy of the honeycomb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.’

9/9 As the hive is tucked up once more for winter, I am reminded of WB Yeats. ‘I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.’