‘Go to the bee
Thou poet:
Consider her ways
And be wise.’
– George Bernard Shaw

It was like nothing I had ever heard: the deep, resonant chant of 10 000 pilgrims; the reverberation of flight muscles primed to 35 degrees and the frenzy of scout bees agitating their sisters. I followed the call to prayer and found a roiling cloud of honeybees above the steeplebush.

It was an incredible sight: a darkening mass of bees some 10 to 20 metres wide, thickening by the second with a steady stream of workers. I watched, knowing a swarm to be docile but intimidated by the sheer volume of their exodus. When the cloud condensed, I would decide what to do.

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A Piece of Paper

I became a beekeeper during lockdown. My education consisted of lectures and a brief stint in an apiary to earn a Preliminary Certificate in Beekeeping. This is how I have been taught to educate myself: to pursue a piece of paper as a permission slip to do the things I want to do. Sometimes this is necessary, but many times it is not. By the end of my training, I had a strong sense of there being a right way and a wrong way to keep bees. When mine swarmed, I felt a familiar sting of failure – I had got it wrong.

Beekeepers in seventh century Ireland were bound by the Bechbretha, ancient beekeeping laws upheld by the Brehons. Bechbretha was part of the law of comaithches (neighbourhood), under which locals were responsible for the impact of their farming on the four properties closest to them. The families made preliminary pledges to the collective to pay compensation for a wide range of offenses, if incurred.

Kindred

Under these laws, I would currently be enjoying a three-year immunity as a new beekeeper. During this time the bees in my charge are free to roam and I am not liable to offer reparation for any damage they incur. The laws were progressive, they recognised equality of gender and favoured restitution rather than punishment. They were also inclusive, the families to whom I would have foresworn a pledge were my ‘kindred’. At the heart of the Bechbretha was the desire that the community would thrive.

When the three-year immunity runs its course, my bees could be charged with a ‘grazing trespass’ under the Bechbretha. The limit of their foraging would be restricted ‘as far as a cow reaches on pasture until milking time’. If they ventured beyond that, I could be fined in honey or even a colony of bees. In my fourth year, the neighbours would be eligible to receive a swarm. By those laws, swarms were an opportunity for generosity.

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Swarming is a honeybee’s natural process of reproduction. Considering a queen lays 1500 eggs a day during the peak summer season, things can become a little crowded in the hive. A robust colony of bees begins to rear a replacement queen a few weeks before the first swarm. When the young queens are almost ready to hatch, and the weather is mild and warm, scout bees rouse the workers. The old queen and two thirds of the bees leave the hive. The rest of the workers stay behind to rear a new queen.

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Once, a swarm of honeybees took up residence in an old woman’s chimney. She boarded up the fireplace and a peaceful co-existence began. As the year turned and the weather warmed, a sweet, mellifluous hum became the background music of her days. At the solstice, seams of honey began seeping through the plasterboard. The woman took it as a gift on her fingertips whenever she passed. One day, silence descended on her home. When a neighbour cut the comb from the chimney, she rendered the wax and made tapers of light. 

A Swarm

My swarm settled within 10 minutes onto the bough of an ash tree where it hung like a seething pendulum. I was paralysed by the fear of making a mistake. When I consulted my teachers, they chastised me for missing the signs of a swarm. The internet was full of conflicting advice about how to approach the situation and my course notes were nowhere to be found. I sat down, breathed deeply and drew from the well of what I know.  

Have you ever seen a swarm of honeybees?

They cling to one another like iron filings to a magnet, bound to the fate of the collective. It might appear as though they are at a loss as to what to do next. However, there is a complex democratic process at work. Animal behaviourist, Thomas D. Seeley, has done extensive research into honeybee swarms. His work shows that when bees have left the hive, and are between homes, they engage in fact-finding, vigorous debate and a fascinating journey to reach a consensus about where they should settle down.

Scout bees, whose job it is to house hunt, conduct three dimensional inspections of hollow tree trunks, chimney breasts and cavity walls. They are thorough in their measurement of the entrance, the volume of the cavity and the humidity of the site.

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Dance Debates

The scouts return to the swarm to report their findings and make a case for their favoured nesting place. Their method of advertisement? Elaborate dance debates. There is a sense of ‘friendly’ competition in the early stages, but honeybees are not afraid of conflict. The conversation can rage on for hours and even days until a consensus is reached. Ultimately the bees are united in their belief about what makes a good home so will eventually vote unanimously.

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The first thing I did was tell my bees the plan. Then, I spread my white brat scarthae ‘spread cloth’ on the ground beneath the ash tree. I set a polystyrene nucleus hive on the cloth and in one strong movement, I shook the branch on which the swarm hung. Against the white cloth, the long-bodied queen was easy to find. I cupped my palms around her, whispered to her and set her on a frame of wax in the hive. What happened next is one of nature’s most incredible rites of passage: the march of a honeybee swarm.

The queen laid down the beat, her pheromones pulsating from inside the hive, and thousands of her prodigy simply walked along the cloth to the entrance. They surged like black waves, breaking upon the polystyrene. A last shake of the branch caused the swell to strengthen, and a numinous chant rang out. Within half an hour, the entire swarm was inside the hive.

Self-Directed Education

In our home, we champion self-directed education. We learn what we want, when we want and how we want. As soon as our joy and enthusiasm wanes, we begin to ask why: have we learned all we need to learn; is there something difficult we should overcome; are we approaching the subject in a way that kills our curiosity?

When I applied this to my own beekeeping journey, I realised the joy had been taken out of the learning. I left the Whatsapp groups full of ‘rules of thumb’ and warnings; I joined a smaller, local association and I began to curate my own beekeeping syllabus. I read the Bechbretha, the work of Thomas D. Seeley and the poetry of Emily Dickinson and Carol Anne Duffy. I became great friends with a beekeeper who wiles away the hours watching his bees and, most importantly, I spent time in my apiary.

According to ancient lore, honeybees are messengers from the gods to teach us how to live: in sweetness, beauty and peacefulness. Our ancestors believed in ‘telling the bees’ as part of a two-way communication between earth and heaven. If there is a death in the family, I must inform the bees and give them a share of the funeral food. I should also communicate good news to maintain the contented hum of the hive. I realised that in all the opening and closing of my hives, the smoking and inspections, the research and troubleshooting, I had never listened to their side of the story. If I were to allow the bees to teach me, what might they want me to learn?

Bee Instruction

To work with them, slowly and with consideration for the industry to which they are deeply committed. To understand them as an integrated whole – no single honeybee thrives at the expense of the colony. Theirs is a community of interdependence with a queen at its heart. She is not a dictator; she is a mother.

To respect the elders of this community who become scouts when the bees swarm. These wise and trusted females are home-seekers because they understand the needs of their community. The worker bees follow their lead.

The bees might also want me to listen. Only then can I know the difference between the contended hum of a queen-right hive and the angst of one whose queen is dead. I can discern the wing beat of a waggle dance and the buzz of workers providing ventilation. I might even catch the bass notes of a drone, the fat male bees present in the summer months.

While I listen, I can also pay attention to patterns and messages left on the comb: capped brood cells with rainbows of honeycomb and every colour of pollen you can imagine; uncapped cells with tiny honeybee larvae and, when I lift a frame to the sunlight, tiny white eggs the size of a rice grain. This is all the information I need.

I think the bees would want me to understand my place. I am the student; they are the teachers. It is not about right and wrong, it is about respect and reciprocity. I can glean wisdom from the experts while reading books on the subject, but I can also spend time with my bee sisters, learn from my mistakes and trust my own instincts.

The Wild Things

Not only is this an empowering education for me but it is an example for my children. I want them to see the piece of paper as a small (and sometimes necessary) part of a much richer, broader and more instinctive learning experience. My hope is that they will be empowered to curate their own curricula that draws on the many resources at their disposal. And they will treat with great tenderness the threads that bind us to one another and the wild things of the world.   

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This week, I opened my hives and found three busy queens laying eggs and enough food to fuel another generation of honeybees. They wintered well and have filled hexagonal cells with bright red pollen from the snowdrops. I introduced myself to each hive and asked if we could work together this year to build healthy colonies with honey to spare. I cannot tell you what they said, the bees and I never talk and tell.