What is the question to which the correct answer is £1 billion?
Lots of things, of course, but for now it is: ‘What would it cost the UK to do its own pollination by hand if our bees disappeared and didn’t do it for us?’
This coming Wednesday is World Bee Day, in which we celebrate the 20,000 or so species of bee on the planet, and particularly the 240 that we host on these islands. Meaning the honeybee, and 239 others.
My beekeeping is a bit like my cricket. I have a few highs- the well judged top-edge catch down at fine leg, the square cut, the ball that creeps through the batsman’s guard but, for the most part, it is a story of underperformance. As with cricket, I do it because I love it, because of the company it brings and because it’s not doing any harm.
Some years are, and some aren’t, but this troubled Spring is a season of swarms. Last weekend, our best hive swarmed, which we knew it would, as trouble had been brewing for some time. Colonies swarm if they are running out of space (which they weren’t), or if there is something up with the Queen. You can tell that the little sods are thinking about it because they start building large queen cells, like acorn cups, on the frames, in preparation for an exodus of about 50% of them. Skilled beekeepers create an artificial swarm so as to dissuade them, whereas Duncan and I tend to shrug our shoulders, shout at them, and hope that they stay put.
I was standing in the joyless queue for the Petworth Co-op last weekend when Caroline called to confirm that they were off: a small, noisy dark cloud that rose up from the hive and parked itself, considerately, on a branch of a nearby elder tree about twelve foot up. (From here, they send scouts out to find suitable new accommodation). This meant that I could reach them, albeit precariously, by ladder, and brush them off the branch into a cardboard box, and trust to luck that I had got the queen. If I had, they would all come; if I hadn’t they wouldn’t.
An hour later, I had re-homed them in a spare hive that we are keeping on behalf of a friend. (It is one of those controversial Australian ones, called a Flow Hive, where you theoretically just have to crank a handle each time you want to fill a pot.) In terms of the options available to them, I would have thought that it was like fetching up in the Ritz, minus the obsequious staff and stratospheric bill for a cup of tea: everything that a bee could want in the world short of an end to all wasps was there. Indeed, by nightfall there was a contented purring that indicated that they had settled in, and were starting on the box sets.
But you never can tell with insects and, when I checked two days ago, the hive was empty, and from it came only silence. They had headed off high up into some tree in Petworth Park, probably, and hadn’t so much as left a tip, or a thank you note. From now on, all the honey they make will be for them, and not for me.
But Wednesday is their World Day, so here are five things you can do immediately to help them.
Stop mowing your lawn for a month. You will be staggered at the variety of bees that will come back.
If you don’t have a little pond, leave a shallow bowl of water, particularly when it gets hot. Shallow, by the way, so that they can walk out.
Contact your local Beekeeping Association if you find a swarm in your garden. They’ll gladly take it off you and give it a new home.
Give up mass produced supermarket honey, most of which is just heat-treated honey-flavoured syrup. Spend a bit more, and buy artisan honey, preferably from near you. You will directly be encouraging more hives.
Give up non-organic pesticides and herbicides for ever. Check out Pesticide Action Network website (www.pan-uk.org) for suitable replacements.
There are many others, but those will help hugely.
In the meantime, and in a shameless plug, I see that Amazon are celebrating the event by offering the kindle version my new book, Liquid Gold, for £0.99p. Jeff Bezos and I, albeit from different ends of the spectrum, will be so happy if you buy one.
Meanwhile, happy World Bee Day!
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