| Friday, October 23, 2020

Dear Friend, 
 

When we were little and recovering from childhood diseases that no longer exist – measles and chickenpox, scarlet fever or mumps – our mother would let us lie in her bed, wrapped in a plaid mohair blanket, and look at special picture books.

One of these was The Beeman of Orn by Frank Stockton. His bees make lovely honey from the flowers and trees that bloom all around the Bee-man’s clearing in the land of Orn. And because the Bee-man is kind, gentle and attentive to their needs, the bees are his friends. In the story, the Bee-man goes on a quest for his true identity, carrying his beehive on his back. He and his bees go through many adventures, including rescuing a baby from a dragon.

The story of the Bee-man always gave me a happy feeling about bees. So when my first child was a baby and I was looking for an interesting but not time-consuming project, I thought it would be an excellent time to become a beekeeper. Not only would the honey be delectable, but the industrious little insects would pollinate our new apple orchard.

I went to visit the local beekeeper, where I placed an order for a swarm, and purchased a hive and the accouterments of a apiculturist – a wide-brimmed hat with netting, long, thick, white leather gloves, and a wooden bellows attached to a metal can. This was the smoker, into which I would place tobacco leaves, light them, and then drug the bees into somnolence with the smoke.

“You’ll also want this,” said my specialist, holding up a pair of gleaming white coveralls. “Bees don’t like dark clothing.”

This wasn’t sounding much like the Bee-man of Orn, although he did have the large hat.
At that moment, another customer came into the garage where these transactions were taking place.

“Yep,” he said. “You’ll need those coveralls. I spray mine with starch. That way the little suckers slide off before they can sting me.”

Hmm, I thought. I might not have quite the grace of Saint Ambroise, patron saint of beekeepers. His parents had observed bees flying gently in and out of his mouth while he slept in his Gallic cradle in 339 A.D. But I intended to love my bees.

I set up my hive under dogwood trees at the edge of the woods and close to the new apple orchard. The swarm arrived in the mail. It was late winter, when bees are hibernating and can safely be transferred into a new hive. When they awakened later in the spring, I lit up the smoker and fed them sugar water. I fumigated their hive to protect them from parasites. My dainty little child would be propped up at what seemed like a safe distance, asleep if I could manage it. As the flowers of spring and summer came and went, the bees buzzed in and out of their new home.

Alas, I was not the Beeman of Orn, nor were my bees my friends. One day in October, it was time to harvest the honey that the fascinating little creatures had made. Smoker in one hand, I opened the hive to have a look. The bees were enraged.

I remembered a couple of lines from The Bee-man of Orn. The Bee-man is carrying the rescued baby.

“My bees never sting babies,” he says.
“They probably never had a chance,” remarks his companion.

I picked up my baby and ran. After that, the idyll between the bees and me was over. They fended for themselves and eventually went to live in the woods.

I was out having a walk last week in the October sunshine at Courtomer, and was reminded of those experiences. At the edge of a coppice, looking toward our neighbor’s extensive cider orchard, was a rucher. Once I would have been charmed by the prospect of this collection of hives and their industrious inhabitants. Now, I trod warily on my way.

I asked our farmer, Monsieur Jean-Yves, who might be the possesseur d'abeilles, the possessor of bees, as the French rural code quaintly has it. There are quite a few amateur producers of honey in the Orne, our département. They sell their products in local marchés, like the open-air market held every Friday in the village of Courtomer. He wasn’t sure, but added, gaily:

“Si vous aimez le miel, ne craignez pas les abeilles!”
“If you like honey, don’t be afraid of bees!” Based on my experience, that means "no pain, no gain."

Like so many French proverbs, this dicton turns on an image of the rural life once so familiar to generations of paysans. Honey and beekeeping, as everywhere in the world, have a long history in France. A cave-painting in Spain even shows prehistoric man taking wild honey out of a tree. Although the Romans must have brought artificial hives to Gaul when they conquered what is now France, like many Roman improvements – central heating, hot running water, aqueducts and paved roads – apiculture was a lost technique for centuries. Until the later Middle Ages, the French foraged for honey in forests, as had their prehistoric ancestors. Even today, a wild swarm is of great interest to the local community in the countryside, as we discovered when we moved to France.

We were roused early one morning to come outside, at once. The children, followed by our indulgently smiling gardener, were insistent.

“Viens, Maman, viens! Les abeilles sont ici!” In their excitement, the two little ones had forgotten their English.

Hanging from a plane tree on the lawn like an upside-down bell was a large black and brown object. About two feet deep, it was an essaim...

To be continued.

A la semaine prochaine, au Chateau de Coutomer,

P.S. Just to remind you that we are taking reservations for 2021 and 2022. The newly renovated "petite maison de l'écurie" -- the little house for two in the old stable block -- as well as the Chateau, renovated Farm House, and Orangerie are ready for your stay or special occasion. Béatrice, at info@chateaudecourtomer.com, will be happy to answer your questions!