COUNTRY LIFE
EXPERIENCE should have taught me to keep away from bees, for, with the best will in the world to remain calm and keep my arms still, I always reach a point where I must drive one out of my ear or claw one from my hair. When the beekeeper himself goes boldly forward without a veil, I feel shamed to remain far from him, and the inevitable happens. So it was when it came time to inspect two colonies we have in the farmer's back-garden. I was cautious at first, but ventured nearer and nearer as the work on the first hive was carried out. The second colony was of " wild Welsh bees," I was told. I listened to comment about Italian, Dutch and English bees, but paid little heed to the information that one strain could be worse than another; that a colony that had been disturbed more often than its neighbour would resent interference. Examination of the frames had hardly started before I was being driven away. The bee-handler used his smoker, giving himself a puff or two to protect his head, but I stayed back thereafter, out of range and keeping company with the farmer's red- headed sons and a pair of timid kittens. Bees differ from hive to hive. Two days after being convinced of this I still have a nasty swelling on my right hand.
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