This one’s taken a while to get around to writing, but I did promise guests who were here at the time that I would put finger to keyboard about it sooner or later. As is usual, sooner became later than usual! If you see what I mean? Still, in the grip of a cold spell, it’s nice to have a summer story, with pictures to warm you up isn’t it? That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!
We’ve always had bees here at Le Chant d’Oiseau, and they’re not really a problem to us or our guests. Usually. Once, whilst mowing the lawns a few years ago, they swarmed angrily and came flying at me in ones and twos to chase me away, I suppose? I was stung a couple of times in the head and the poor old dog got one or two in the arse. Then, happy that they’d done their kamikaze duty for their queen, the bees promptly died and the rest, satisfied that they’d been a part of the attack simply flew back up to the chimney where they live and continued about their business.
That’s where they’ve lived since we’ve been here, and for quite a few years before that, it seems. Now, the problem is that I’d like to reopen that chimney at some point soon to install a small woodburner in my lounge. Not that it’s cold in there with the two massive radiators fed by the huge Godin (like an Aga, but French) in the kitchen. It’s really for two reasons. A) I miss having a ‘focal point’ in there, other than the bloody telly, and b) we have evenings where, after the doors and windows have been open all day in the sunshine, it turns a bit chilly. But not chilly enough to warrant lighting the Godin. Pretty soon after we do, we’re opening doors and windows again because it’s too hot!
But, because the bees are in residence, and because of the longevity of their tenure, I’m really loathe to shift them for my own pretty shallow needs! That said, I’m wondering how big, after well over 10 years of squatters rights, their honeycomb might be? At some point in the near future, do we run the risk of the chimney breast bursting open, and honey (and bees) flowing out Vesuvius-like, to render us (Pompeii-style) goo-ey prisoners in our own lounge?
The pompiers don’t come to remove them anymore, unless someone’s stung. It’s down to professional apiculteurs now, here in France and apparently it costs a packet! But, I doubt your average run-of-the-honeypot apiculturist would have the necessary equipment to dislocate this bunch from their cosy little nook up on high? I posed this question to two very lovely lady pompiers, who came recently collecting for their calendar. It’s a part of French life that you may not be aware of, is this. Each year, depending upon when they have the time, the pompiers will travel around the commune, visiting each dwelling under their care. They’re collecting funds in return for a calendar featuring action shots of what they do. You donate what you feel is right for you, given your interaction with them (and your conscience).
Both my two eldest kids have had need of the pompiers after falling from their bikes and scooters over the past 5 years. We were pretty impressed with the level of speed, care, efficiency and professionalism shown in each case. I dare say in cases where there’s a real need for expediency, they wouldn’t spend quite so much time kissing one another, shaking hands, and generally having a laugh, as they did when Liam fell off his pushbike. Nor would they wait quite so long for the Mayor of Mouliherne to turn up if it was indeed urgent.
So, I usually offer a reasonable sum for the collective calendar kitty, and a big tin of sweeties! This time, having recently returned from a short visit to family in the UK, I brought back a few tins of Quality Streets, Heroes and stuff. The faces of the two young ladies as I proffered this large tin of Heroes was a picture, and they both agreed that these were, in fact, their favourites. The name wasn’t lost on them either, as that’s what these people are. Heroes. In chatting to them, we came around to my ‘bee problem’, and they informed me of the recent changes to the rules of engagement. That notwithstanding, and possibly due to my donating a sizeable sum for a small calendar, and their obvious delight in having their choccy habit fed, they promised to see Stephane, their boss, about it!
I know Stephane well. Not least because he’s the son of our good friends Bernard & Mauricette, but also because it’s he who’s been in the vanguard of any incident involving members of my family. He’s a really nice man, working as he does for the commune by day and when the need arises, he finds the nearest telephone box and changes into Super-Pompier.
So, I’m waiting for a call, or a visit from someone to have a deeper look into my problem. You never know, I may be bee free by 2020!
But, in the meantime – back to the tale in hand. This year, ‘our’ bees have swarmed twice. Both times in June. I took pictures of this fascinating and mysterious event. The swarm was quite big, the first time the clump of bees attached precariously to a branch of the catalpa tree just outside our bedroom measured around 18″ to 2′ in length. According to good advice, that’s in the region of 10’000 bees! They stayed there for a day or two, the swarm blurred by the constant movement of the bees around their queen. Then, they disappeared back into the chimney, silently and without warning. That’s it, over & done we thought.
Not so. They reappeared a day or so later, but almost at ground level, at the end of our driveway, hanging on precariously to a laurel bush. What to do? People were in fear of being stung, even though it looked like the bees were far too busy having a group hug to notice all the comings and goings around them. I had an idea. I’d often noticed, on the way out of Mouliherne, on the Auverse road to Hannah’s restaurant, that there were quite a few beehives situated behind an old farmhouse there. So, off I went, in search of a tame apiculteur!
Here followed one of the most bizarre half hours of my life.
The fellow was sat at his kitchen table in a wheelchair, dressed in heavy knit, woollen pyjama trousers, in the heat of June, peeling apples over a huge earthenware bowl. I knocked on the open door, peered into the darkness and announced who I was, and why I’d come to see him. The old boy shook my hand, never gave me his name, but continued to peel his apples. He asked where the bees where in relation to the ground, and where I lived. He said he’d be only too pleased to relieve me of them but he’d have to wait for his wife. He’d be there in an hour or less. But first “Where in the UK are you from?” I replied “Doncaster, in Yorkshire. Do you know it?” “No, I know Leeverpull. Is it near there?” Came the retort. ‘Leeverpull. Lee-ver-pull’, I repeated in my head, trying to think where that might be. A light came on in my head. A good job really, as the interior of the farmhouse was so dark. “Liverpool? No, it’s quite a way from there, in a different (better) department.” I said. To my amazement, he continued “Yes, it wasn’t too good there. No one had a job and the countryside wasn’t too good either. Now, what does your father do? Does he work?”
This completely threw me off guard.
Like most people confronted with a particular problem, in a different language, I have to rehearse in my head how the conversation might go. I simply wasn’t prepared for this. I’d rehearsed bees. Not Lee-ver-pull, the geography of the northern reaches of the UK, nor a description of my dad and his work! I was thrown. But, thinking this may be a test of my worthiness to be relieved of my bees, I gathered my thoughts and told the old man that my dad was close to retirement now, hadn’t worked for a few years since being made redundant from a large factory making tractors. This lit a fire within the fellow, and he asked “What kinds of tractors? For the apple farms?” “Er, no. These were very large tractors, for the American market. For the large, open prairies.” I was getting into my stride now, remembering the massive beasts being loaded onto low-loaders outside the factory where I thought my dad had single-handedly built every last one of them.
“Ah. They’re no good. I need a small one to go in-between the apple trees. Like you see in the vines too?” He replied, crestfallen that I wasn’t in a position to offer him a huge discount on a small, apple-going tractor.”Tant pis! Now, you go, and I’ll be along for your bees very soon.”
The interview over, I stumbled back to the car, and drove home, my head buzzing (literally) with thoughts of bees, woollen pyjamas in June, and tractors. Good to his word, the gentleman arrived not too long after in a small Peugeot, converted to suit his disability. The conversion itself was a tangled mass of levers and pulleys, which he proudly told me “wasn’t available anymore.” Probably because it had caused more deaths by entanglement than anything you could dream of, I thought.
The lady asked where the bees were, and I pointed just to the right of her, where they’d stopped the car on the driveway. She jumped, said “Oh!” in a surprised fashion, and proceeded to get all the equipment out of the car. The first job was placing a gaily coloured deckchair within inches of the swarm, for the old man to do his magic. She herself donned the traditional gauntlets, a hat with netting mask and large apron. Himself just unsnapped the steel calipers he was wearing, allowing him to be caught in a sitting position by the deckchair. The lady placed a hat and veil on his head and handed him a blowtorch affair. Flinging the hat to the back of his head, complaining he couldn’t see the damn bees, he lit a piece of card in the ‘blowtorch’.
The lady placed a large white sheet under the laurel, below where the bees were clumped and asked if she could cut a few pieces to make it easier to access? It all happened so fast. he gave a few puffs of the gun, the bees seemed to agitate a little.
A few more puffs, then wait a few seconds. Meanwhile, she had placed a large basket under the swarm. On a signal from him, she tapped the branch with her sécateurs and the whole clump fell into the basket. A sieve-like lid was placed on top, et voila! C’est fait!
They explained to us, and the rest of the assembled guests how the bees had seperated from the main swarm in the chimney as they’d got a new queen. two queens can’t survive in one place, so the bees have to choose. These outcasts had chosen the new queen. When they got home, a white cloth would be laid on the ground, leading up into the dark entrance to their new hive, and the bees would simply walk up the cloth to their new home. From there on in, it was honey, honey, honey. A jar or two of which would be presented to us as a thankyou for letting them have the bees!
The casket of bees was placed in the back of the car, many still buzzing around, trying to get to their queen, and the two got back in and drove away, trailing quite a few bees, struggling to keep up with the car, keeping their queen in sight. All in all, a job well done.
Life is full of unreal experiences, isn’t it?
Bee good! 😉
Until the next time,
Au revoir.
TBC
All content © Le Chant d’Oiseau, 2006-2010
Another fantastic read Stu! Do keep these coming honey (ooh… honey… geddit?!)
Much love from sunny Lanzarote. Elle xx
Cheers my lovely. Hope you’re having a fantastic birthday? I could do with the warmth of the sun after reading what’s in store for us in the next week or two! Brrrrrr! Minus 12? Ouch! XX
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How nice? Thanks Keith!
Hi Stu, I’m over from A Taste of Garlic. A fascinating post and well-deserving of its award.
Hi Sarah, thanks alot for the kind comments, much appreciated!
Hi Stu, I saw you listed on Survive France Network. Great post, hope you continue!
Hi Dedene, et merci!