By: Ann Chilcott
This article originally appeared in the Autumn 2017 issue of BEEKeeping Your First Three Years
Yes, they will tell you much if you listen
For instance, on a bright Spring morning when the birds are tuning up and perfecting their mating songs, I can go into my apiary and see, coming into the hives, bright yellow pollen packed tightly into the corbiculae on the bee’s back legs. The forager bees are telling me that their queen is laying well, that there are lots of larvae to feed, and that the crocuses are in full bloom. I hurry along to the lawn where I laboriously, but lovingly, dug the tough matted soil to plant two hundred crocus bulbs two Autumns ago to give rich pollen in early Spring when little else is available. The chilly day keeps the temperature down around 41° F (6° C) but the sun shines; and there, inside the twitching petals, are my bees working away inside the flowers, protected from the chill wind by their unique protective coverings and microclimate.
Water collectors come to the bird dish on my shaded patio when the temperature is only around 41° F (6° C) – often lower – and this indicates that they really need water badly to risk death from chilling. The cold water cools the aorta carrying haemolymph to the brain so they are very vulnerable. I’ve seen them drinking when the temperature is way down low at around 40.8° F (4.9° C), but then these bees are darker and hairier than some races, and local to my Nairnshire home in the Scottish Highlands so must be adapted to working at lower temperature ranges. I’m happy to see them drinking because I know then that the queen must be laying well – great amounts of water are needed to make brood food for the young.
Nevertheless I’m still perplexed – why come round to the shaded patio when I laid on water in a dish lined with drown-proof black sponge sitting in full winter sun on a low tin roof? Bees don’t get adequate salts and minerals from plants so they must crave these from the muddy moss that now lines the bird dish following my discovery of several neardrowned bees floating in the water. I took them indoors, and when they warmed up they flew to the window and off out again. The birds weren’t impressed with their new bathing facilities so I’ve set them up with something better close by.
Witnessing masses of drones flying in early Spring long before they would normally be required to mate with a new queen would fill me with a sinking feeling of gloom. I would know that the colony was queenless and workers were laying unfertilised eggs, or that the queen had run out of semen and had become a “drone layer.” I would take appropriate measures to help the bees, and I might let the spare queen, waiting in the wings and overwintering in the cosy polystyrene nucleus box, come to their rescue.
Later in the season, if I am too busy to notice local forage, the bees will tell me that there is a nectar flow on, that the nearby oilseed rape crop is in full bloom, and that I need to super up and give them plenty space to hang out drying nectar and to store precious honey. I notice the pale yellow pollen – various pollen charts may tell me that the colour is different but I know that my bees will add saliva to tamp down the pollen and prevent it blowing away on the inbound flight which will alter the color of the pollen. I notice increased traffic and congestion at the hive entrance with bees bumping into each other – some are knocked off course as they land. In the evenings I hear the satisfying harmonious hum as the fanning bees evaporate the nectar and reduce the water content from around 80 to under 20 percent. I smell that familiar sweet cruciferous scent in the air and I rejoice for I know that the bees will thrive and multiply.
If the ambient air temperature is above 57.2° F(14° C) I may look inside the hive and marvel at the wax works as I check for specific developments. Frames holding new foundation are bee-festooned, and bulging with white wax confirming the oil seed rape crop just four fields away. A little later on in May, the bright yellow wax will herald the dandelion season. Again in August, I may see bright yellow wax and smell “sweaty old socks”, but I am being told that the local farmer has not heeded the law and that ragwort (Senecio jacobaea) is abundant in the field up near the old ruined dwelling. The textbooks denounce ragwort honey as unpalatable, but, if left for a couple of months to mature, it is delicious – in my view – especially mixed with a little heather (Calluna vulgaris) nectar from the nearby forest.
A long spell of poor weather in early Summer may compromise the quality and availability of forage. If I have missed this cue, my bees will soon tell me that they are suffering a dearth of income and their usual calm behaviour may change to defensive crankiness. If I see drones being evicted I will be suspicious, but if I see larvae, especially worker larvae, being thrown out of the hive entrance I shall be very worried indeed that they may be starving and will feed them at once if the lack of stores in the brood box confirms this sorry state.
Since the bees can detect atmospheric pressure changes before I can, they can alert me to a rain shower or electrical thunder storm. I should heed any defensive grumpy behaviour on a hot still muggy day and shut up the hive if I know what’s good for me. If I see what looks like a swarm in reverse with thousands of foragers tumbling into the hive entrance, instead of issuing forth, I needn’t panic and run for my skep (swarm collecting basket) – no, I need to take cover in my bee shed from the rain when it comes. See pictures below – a peep into Ann’s bee shed, for storing equipment, and a swarm collecting skep with sheet to cover skep and secure swarm for bringing home.
I think that what my bees tell me could fill a book and that I might be nominated winner of a “Bore for Britain” competition – if there was such a thing. So, before this happens, I must tell you the most wondrous thing that my bees tell me.
Bees and humans are the only animals that share information about desirable things such as food. That’s pretty cool don’t you think? But what is even more astounding, I think, is that I can eavesdrop carefully on my bees and find out to the nearest few yards where they are foraging.
Last year, a friend gave me a copy of The Dancing Bees by Karl Von Frisch which I read from cover to cover in a few days. This inspired me to learn how to read the dance language of my observation hive bees who live in the bee shed for most of the year on two jumbo sized brood frames (12″x 14″) in a beautiful glass sided palace insulated by “kingspanned” covered sides.
With the help of another friend, I learned how to time the waggle dance using a stop watch and to interpret the distance, they were indicating, with the aid of a graph. For example, one second of waggling in each dance circuit equals one thousand metres. I observed and timed 10 bees for 10 dance cycles averaging the times for the latter. I then held a protractor to the glass and measured the angle of the dance from where the bee’s head was pointing with respect to up. Then I used an astronomical chart, obtained from the internet, giving the sun’s altitude (position above the horizon) and its azimuth (direction of the sun). I needed to be able to work out the position of the sun easily at all times during the day given that the earth moves round the sun and that the bees orientate to the sun and alter their position on the dance floor accordingly. Then I worked out the positions of the sites, advertised by the bees, and plotted them on my ordinance survey map.
What the bees told me was that the furthest away patch of forage they were visiting was one and half miles away from our homes in Piperhill Village near the River Nairn, and that they were foraging on Himalayan balsam (Impatiens glandulifera).
To be honest, I knew already that they were working the Himalayan balsam for some had the tell-tale silvery white stripes running down their thoraxes and painting their wings. The pollen was creamy peach. What I hadn’t known was exactly where they were working this plant, and so when I followed the directions on the map and found them there I was filled with great satisfaction and jubilation.
The things my bees tell me have enriched my life, but more importantly they have taught me to be a more sensitive and more aware beekeeper. I’m also much better equipped now to pass on knowledge and skills to others. Often I’m able to work out what’s going on inside the hive without having to open up, move the furniture, and disturb the bees, which has great advantages.
