Much Malarkey Bees

I was rather looking forward to collecting our bees from Gloucestershire today, if only to tell our bee supplier what appalling customer service skills he's got. But I thought I'd wait until we'd got the bees safely in our possession, and then tell him loudly from the car window as Andy was putting his pedal to the metal, and Mr Bee Man had no chance of catching us.

Off we set, at 6.15 a.m. We arrived in Gloucester just two hours and twenty minutes later which was pretty good going, we thought, and bang in the centre of the time slot we had been given by Mr Bee Man to take collection of our 5 frame nuc. (Nuc is short for nucleus - you see, we've started to talk like bee-keepers already. It's only a matter of time before we shorten our speech to a series of buzzzz 'n' bizzz.)

Anyway, it was raining when we arrived at Mr Bee Man's farm bungalow. Cold, wet rain. No sign of anyone on the farmstead, so I scuttled down the drive to find a very complex series of instructions tacked to the bungalow door detailing where to go next. Which meant I had to scuttle back up the drive (Andy was waiting in the road, as the drive was littered with many, many vehicles) to get my notebook as there was no way I was going to remember everything that had been written.

And just as I was returning, someone who I presumed was Mrs Bee Man appeared at the bungalow door, in a full set of curlers and a dressing gown, and stood and stared at me.

'Mrs Bee Man?' I enquired. (This is not their real name. I shall refrain from real names as I cannot afford to be sued for what is going to become a potentially libellous blog entry.)

She nodded.

'We've come from Kent. To collect a nuc,' I continued. My hair was getting drippy wet by now.

' 'E's just come back from up there. 'E's 'avin' a sandwich. 'E'll be out in a minute,' said Mrs Bee Man. 'Go up to the end of the road, turn round, and wait.'

And off she went.

Come back from where? I thought. Anyway, I returned to Andy, we followed instructions and sat and waited on the road.

Fifteen minutes later, Mr Bee Man, sandwich-fresh, appeared, leapt into his truck and shot out of the driveway, performing a gesticulation from the truck window which we took to mean, 'Follow me,' and not, 'Sod off back to Kent, you foreigners.'

He drove like a maniac, a stuffed toy monkey flailing wildly from where it was impaled atop his windscreen. At least I hope it was a toy monkey. We raced after him as he swerved his way along the road, and then suddenly, he pulled into a turning and slammed on his brakes. We stopped also, and watched as he leapt from his truck, ducked beneath it and picked up what looked like a half-full plastic container of sweet and sour chicken. He waved it at us triumphantly, threw it into his truck and gesticulated for us to continue the chase.

'Waste not, want not,' I said.
Andy didn't say a word. He was thinking, ye gods, what kind of a parallel universe have we slipped into here?

Down a farm track we went, until we stopped at a five bar gate. Mr Bee Man leapt from his truck. Andy wound down his window.
'And what's your name?' said Mr Bee Man.
'Andy, 'said Andy. 'And this is Denise.'

We all shook hands. Except me and Andy, because we know each other already.

'Gate's locked,' said Mr Bee Man. 'Holidaymakers, see. That hill over there, that's where they do the cheese-rolling. Cars everywhere. You've never seen nothing like it!' And he waved his arms expansively. 'Got to go back and fetch the key. You park there. Won't be long.'

And off he went.

'But Mrs Bee Man said he'd already been up here this morning,' I said. 'You'd think he'd have the key with him.'
'Perhaps it's an excuse to get another sandwich,' said Andy.

We waited another twenty minutes, and ate an apple each. I made notes in my notebook about impaled toy monkeys, cheese rolling and discarded Chinese takeaway. A writer is always on the look-out for potential material. In retrospect, I don't think this was it.

Mr Bee Man duly re-appeared. He opened the gate by firstly turning the key and then bashing the padlock with a hefty rock. Back in the truck, he sped along the farm track, us in pursuit, until we arrived at what I presumed was his place of business. Well, it was a shed.

Out we got.
'And where are you going, young lady?' he said, looking at me. 'This isn't a picnic party you know.'
I wasn't sure what to say to this. By now I was thinking it best to say as little as possible.
'I'll take the big guy with me,' said Mr Bee Man. 'You go and explore.'

The big guy? It took me a moment to realise he was referring to Andy. Clearly, collecting bees was man's work, not for the little lady. Mr Bee Man whisked Andy away in his truck. I was left standing at the shed, wondering if I would ever see Andy alive again.

But, thank goodness, they reappeared ten minutes later, Andy clutching a nuc box and looking a little pale.

'But that's another story,' I heard Mr Bee Man say, as they a-lighted from the truck.
'Follow me,' he said, and hustled us back into the shed. 'Now listen,' he continued, 'when you get back, you're looking for one of these, ' and he waved a queen cage at us. 'If she ain't there, then she's chewed 'er way out. Take the frames out of the box and put in the hive facing exactly the same way. Don't be changing 'em round. If you do, you might squash the Queen.'
'Is she marked?' I asked.
'No, didn't have time to mark any of 'em,' said Mr Bee Man. 'And then put your feeder in...'
'And where does the queen come from?' I persisted, because I knew I had to ask these questions and wasn't going to let him get away without answering them.
'Australia,' said Mr Bee Man. 'I got papers,' he added, rather defensively. 'Where 'ave you come from?'
'Kent,' I said.
' 'Ave you got papers?' he said.
'I've got a passport,' I said, because 1) I didn't know what else to say and it was the first thing that came into my head and 2) I wanted to humour him and get away as quickly as possible.
'Passport ain't papers,' said Mr Bee Man, triumphantly. We started edging towards the door.
'Let me know how you get on,' said Mr Bee Man.
Yeah, right, we both thought.
'Thank you!' we said, loading our bees into the car boot. Thankfully, at that moment, another customer arrived and Mr Bee Man's attention was diverted. We escaped Gloucester sanity intact and 10,000 bees heavier.

And here is moi, dressed a la bee-keeper, opening the nuc entrance to let the bees orientate themselves about their new environment. They were a bit cross by the time we got home because, typically, we got stuck in traffic. And it proved too wet, cold and windy to re-hive them this evening, so we thought we'd let them unstress in their nuc and make re-hiving a job for tomorrow.

Bees at the Manor! I wonder what will be next?