British Beekeeping, A Summer's Humming
I walked out this evening- way after dark, and after a long day where our little town had a yearly festival, with a thousand visitors, and I heard a hum like a generator, like sometimes the fire department here runs- but it wasn't. And I cocked an ear, and then another- and heard the obvious sound that a year is too long to remember - the bees, in their hives, fanning- spilling out over the entry, and in the pitch dark of the roof, a constant, thick, warm, nectar scented humming.
Loud. If you haven't heard it, you'd be surprised. It's loud. Loudish anyway- its not keeping neighbors up- but you'd wonder what what it was if you were within 20 feet.
Its deliberate and intense, and a strong reminder of why I love these animals.
I just purchased a bunch of books on ebay from a bookseller in England, who was selling his father's books on beekeeping. His father was born in 1930, and died about the same year as my father did, in 2014. I asked him for a photo of his father, to include with the books I received, and he sent it. A quite wonderful picture of his father in a bowler hat, at a bee gathering in the 80's, with an obituary testifying to how well he was respected by his Nottingham bee club. Which is not small potatoes. Way, way, more intense than anything in the USA.
What is interesting, to me, is that a few miles away from where his father kept bees, my grandfather was born, and both, I as a young hippie, and my father, as a young soldier (35 years apart), both visited. He gets the greater credit and all (fighting in France and saving Western Civilization), and I, lesser (hitchhiking in France, BFD), but we both shared the same thing. Though not together.
And now I look though these old books from the 40s- and it is endlessly interesting. How people then spoke of the craft (which is what Brits called it), and how much they organized their thoughts...well, like I would want to if I could- that quirky, British way of being concerned about small things. Its being of that heritage, I guess. I don't know. But I have this stack of books, and the night humming outside, and it seems connected,
Loud. If you haven't heard it, you'd be surprised. It's loud. Loudish anyway- its not keeping neighbors up- but you'd wonder what what it was if you were within 20 feet.
Its deliberate and intense, and a strong reminder of why I love these animals.
I just purchased a bunch of books on ebay from a bookseller in England, who was selling his father's books on beekeeping. His father was born in 1930, and died about the same year as my father did, in 2014. I asked him for a photo of his father, to include with the books I received, and he sent it. A quite wonderful picture of his father in a bowler hat, at a bee gathering in the 80's, with an obituary testifying to how well he was respected by his Nottingham bee club. Which is not small potatoes. Way, way, more intense than anything in the USA.
What is interesting, to me, is that a few miles away from where his father kept bees, my grandfather was born, and both, I as a young hippie, and my father, as a young soldier (35 years apart), both visited. He gets the greater credit and all (fighting in France and saving Western Civilization), and I, lesser (hitchhiking in France, BFD), but we both shared the same thing. Though not together.
And now I look though these old books from the 40s- and it is endlessly interesting. How people then spoke of the craft (which is what Brits called it), and how much they organized their thoughts...well, like I would want to if I could- that quirky, British way of being concerned about small things. Its being of that heritage, I guess. I don't know. But I have this stack of books, and the night humming outside, and it seems connected,
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