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life as an amateur beekeeper: i ended up badly stung - but i refuse to give up my bees share alex preston: 'the doctor told me, i’d have to come to hospital each time i was stung. it was likely that my reactions would continue to worsen... it’s a sign of my obsession that i didn’t for a moment consider giving up on the bees.' alex preston: 'the doctor told me, i’d have to come to hospital each time i was stung. it was likely that my reactions would continue to worsen... it’s a sign of my obsession that i didn’t for a moment consider giving up on the bees.' alex preston 3 august 2019 • 8:00 am there is evidence that the global population of honeybees is in catastrophic decline. to do his bit, alex preston embarked on an apian adventure. with mixed results… like many stories, the history of my first year as a beekeeper starts with hope and ends in despair, taking in along the way a good deal of adventure, joy and, occasionally, terror. the bees have landed me in hospital, strained my relations with my neighbours and introduced me to a ragtag band of english eccentrics, many of whom are now close friends. there were two sources of inspiration for my move into the world of bees. the first was a book about beekeeping so magical and inspiring that it’s hard to read it without catching the bee bug. a honeybee heart has five openings by helen jukes tells of the part bees played in the author’s drifting 20-something years, the way they helped her come to terms with her own ideas of home, of nature and humanity’s responsibility to preserve it. it portrays a community of beekeepers who aren’t all bearded, ale-swilling, sandal-and-sock-wearing men. then there was hugh, one of the first real friends i made on moving to the country three years ago. he told me of the happiness his bees brought him, a relationship with the insects that went far beyond a mere honey harvest. a pursuit that required patience, mindfulness and unconditional love. ‘i love standing close to the entrance of the hive, marvelling at the variety of colours of pollen, and studying and trying to guess which plants they are from,’ he told me. ‘i look like the village idiot – but who cares?’ the first time hugh took me to see his hives, a bee made straight for him and stung him on the forehead. urged on by hugh, and with jukes’s book clutched like a bible, i began to research hives, varieties of honeybees, local beekeeping associations. i kept landing on a company called flow hive, run out of australia, whose adverts showed honey gushing from the hive through tubes, an impressive mix of ancient craft and modern technology. a few weeks later, my flow hive arrived and i spent a happy few hours constructing it. i purchased a ‘nucleus’ of bees – i went for buckfasts, a strain raised by a certain brother adam at buckfast abbey in devon, known for their placid temperament and hardy constitution. i placed the frames into my hive, stood back and waited for something to happen. slowly, timorously, the bees began to edge out and explore their new home. i spent much of the rest of the day watching them, trying to follow their path through the air until i lost them against the sky, glorying at the swiftness with which they got on with the business of their lives. alex preston places a frame in his brood box alex preston places a frame in his brood boxcredit: harry mitchell hugh put me in touch with dale gibson, who runs bermondsey street bees in london. gibson, a former stockbroker, now manages hives across the city – apparently, london has more bees than any other urban area in the world – and provides a high-end bee consultancy service. i was already a fan of his wife, sarah wyndham lewis, whose book planting for honeybees is a guide to filling your garden with nectar-rich flowers (for small gardens, she recommends marjoram, passion flower and eryngium; for larger ones, go for hebe, ceanothus, hawthorn and cherry laurel). i told gibson that i’d read every bee book i could get my hands on, and spoken to a host of local beekeepers, and that every bit of advice i’d been given seemed to contradict the last. ‘beekeepers are parochial… just like their bees,’ he said. gibson told me his credo, which i decided to adopt as my own: ‘there’s no one single way of doing it right, but there are many ways of doing it wrong.’ on my second day as a beekeeper, i received a panicked text from my neighbour. it was early afternoon and she was at work in london. her mother, preparing to go and pick up the children from school, found herself unable to leave the house because of a swarm of bees so irate that the windows were vibrating. i donned my bee-suit, lit my smoker, and went next door. it was, indeed, like a scene from a 1980s horror movie. the bees were everywhere, zigzagging angrily about above the lavender that lines the path to their home. i could see the grandmother eyeing me from the kitchen window. i puffed smoke at the bees; it drifted away on the breeze. i phoned hugh; he was at work and didn’t pick up. i retreated and began to google. finally, i escorted the grandmother to her car, puffing smoke either side of her like a benevolent dragon. i then found a hose and began to spray the bees. this seemed to work and the angry swarm eventually dissipated. they were not my bees at all, but a rival colony come to raid my own, precious hive. alex preston alex preston credit: harry mitchell i’d established the bees so late in the season that there was no thought of a 2018 honey harvest. while there was nectar from the ivy that threads through the beech hedges that surround our two acres of garden on the kent/east sussex border, the bees would need this to see them through the winter. it was an autumn of high winds and worry. i pinned down the hive with a system of bungee cords and bricks. still, i woke in the middle of the night to hear the wind howling, and scurried out in my pyjamas to check that it hadn’t been upended. i worried about american foulbrood disease and varroa mites, green woodpeckers and badgers. hugh set up a whatsapp group with a few other young(ish) beekeeper friends – lizzie, caroline and tim. it was some comfort to know that the others were as concerned as i was. tragedy struck. hugh lost his colony to a wasp attack, the entire hive wiped out in a morning of slaughter. ‘it is almost like the heart of the garden has been harpooned,’ he wrote to me. it took him months to get over it, but now he has a new colony, and our whatsapp group is a happy place once more. i suffered a smaller loss: a royal succession. the death of my old queen – whom i’d marked with a red spot – was a terrible blow, made worse by the fact that for weeks i thought my hive was without a queen at all. in fact, a new queen had emerged and i finally found her hiding at the bottom of a frame, smaller and leaner than her predecessor. i met a new bee mentor, sam webb, who helped me mark my queen in lurid pink. webb is a builder during the day, but also manages 10 hives and makes some of the most delicious and in- demand raw honey in kent. webb began to come every few weeks to teach me about the bees and their peculiarities, the things to watch for as the colony moved through the seasons. winter passed, and as the bees began to emerge in that warm, damp spring, it was hard not to feel the glow that comes from doing something unequivocally good: the bees were my envoys, sent to rebuild the ecology of my small patch of earth, pollinating the flowers that would fill our vases, the fruit and veg that would feed the family. the kids began to ask if they could carry out hive inspections with me. spring kindled into summer and i put the super (the top hive, from which honey is harvested) on to the brood box (where the queen lays her eggs). there’d been so much bad news about insects, about bees in particular, and i found myself lying on the grass near the hive, watching my bees buzz over me, not caring that i was stung occasionally. i persuaded myself that i had a particularly benign colony, and took to opening up the hive wearing only a veil and a pair of marigolds. how bees make honey how bees make honey it seemed, though, that i was wrong to feel so smug about my beekeeping. i read a series of articles about the impact of honeybees on wild pollinators. honeybees are indeed in decline in the united states, where the use of chemical fertilisers is routine, and insect numbers are in catastrophic collapse. elsewhere, though, it’s less clear, with some studies showing that honeybees in the united kingdom are actually on the rise and outcompeting other, rarer, unmanaged pollinator species, largely bumblebees and butterflies. beekeeping, it seems, is less ethically sound, more darkly nuanced, than i’d expected. another lesson followed close on the heels of that one. around a third of beekeepers develop severe reactions to bee-stings as a result of multiple exposures to the toxins in them. i noticed that recent stings on my hands and arms had swollen up more than they used to and had continued to itch for days afterwards. we had a houseful of guests in late june when, taking a break from swilling rosé under the pergola, i strolled out to check on the bees. i wasn’t even very nearby when an irate-looking worker bee came straight for me, flew up my nose, and stung me. it is said that the nostrils and the penis are the most painful places to be stung. i can vouch for one of these. i howled, and ran inside to take an antihistamine and hold some ice on my throbbing face. when i removed the icepack, i didn’t recognise myself in the mirror – my mouth was swollen to triple its normal size, my nose an angry beacon. my wife drove me to hastings hospital, where a cannula was thrust into my arm and i was pumped full of drugs until, several hours later, i stopped pulsating. in the coming days, my face slowly began to deflate but, from now on, the doctor told me, i’d have to come to hospital each time i was stung. it was likely that my reactions would continue to worsen, and that my beekeeping future was one of epipens, swollen features and, possibly, a grim and lingering death. my wife and kids found the whole thing enormously entertaining. it’s a sign of my obsession that i didn’t for a moment consider giving up on the bees.  alex's flow hive alex's flow hive credit: harry mitchell helen jukes told me that she too suffered increasingly violent reactions to stings. ‘i’m super-careful now,’ she said. ‘i got stung badly during the final edits of the book. it felt like the bees telling me that enough was enough, that i’d got too close to them.’ jukes told me she was writing an afterword to the latest edition of her book, highlighting concerns about honeybees and their impact on other pollinators. ‘it’s really difficult to know what’s right and what’s wrong,’ she said. ‘we really don’t know how much forage honeybees need and to what extent they’re in competition with other species. also, for a long time, research into wild bee species has been lacking – lots of money has gone into research on honeybees, and it’s only now that our knowledge about wild species is catching up.’ whatever the ethics of beekeeping, my colony brought joy at a time of sadness. my beloved mother-in-law, who has been a large and generous presence in my life and the lives of my children, who nurtured my love of gardening, and whom i’ve known for more than half my 40 years, is terribly ill. she came to stay the weekend of the first harvest in july and, with an appetite for nothing much else, managed to hold down a little yogurt and honey. i got a total of two-and-a-half jars from that first honey harvest (if i take nothing else from the hive this year, which is quite possible, the jars will have cost me around £500 each; but then, the bees have never really been about the honey for me). i sent two home with my mother-in-law: sustenance for the difficult days ahead. they felt like a fitting tribute, glowing golden with the light of the garden she helped us to create. her grandchildren finished off the rest of the harvest in a few greedy, sticky-fingered gulps
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