A bee landed on my friend’s black woolly hat the other night. It seemed in good shape, standing squarely on sturdy, shiny black legs, a minute teddy bear in two shades of brown, the sort I’m very familiar with in the summer time and even up to late autumn. He laid his hat down and the bee crawled inside. He had to find something else to wear the following morning as he didn’t have the heart to disturb it. It set me thinking though as to what bees do in the coldest weather. Winter bees? Do they even survive from one year to the next?
In and around the villages here there are large numbers of hives, suggesting that many people are involved in making Savoie mountain honey - that is, honey from bees which have feasted on the summer flowers which grow at altitude. They can be seen foraging, higher and higher over large distances up to 2,400 metres, a fact I can vouch for since I have camped at that height and seen the bees arrive in the morning with the sun, just as if they were following a ‘sun front’, careful not to run ahead of it into air not yet warmed. The flowers do not open anyway until the sun reaches them, which reminds me that we are all part of a system, interconnected. The magical thing they perform to turn the nectar into honey creates a very intense flavour, different from any other sweet taste and it keeps for a very long time. I love the idea that honey from the tomb of Cleopatra could still be enjoyable. As the weather becomes colder up on the hillsides, wild bees may not all survive. In nature, the queen settles in a discarded mouse nest or similar and reduces her staff to just sufficient to keep next year’s eggs protected, in order to avoid having to feed all the bees through the winter, counting on there being sufficient in the spring to seek the first pollen from willow trees and early flowers. The beekeeper however maintains the whole hives where possible by leaving some of the summer’s takings with the bees so they have enough to live on during the cold months. Inside the wooden hive the bees form a huddle around the queen, slowly circulating so that the ones on the outside do not freeze. It can become very warm in the centre of that mass of furry bodies, 80 degrees Fahrenheit, or so and about 40 even on the outside. So with enough honey or candy left for them they should survive. On bright winter days they take short flights away from the hive, chiefly to get rid of waste, but must not stray too far in the cold air. Perhaps our bee did just that.
The honey is certainly a remarkable product and one undoubtedly worthy of the ‘Cross of Savoie’ logo, a square white cross on a red shield. You can find this marque on many items; on the local liqueur ‘génépi’ which finishes off many a dinner, and diner, at the end of an evening; on ‘reblochon’ cheese, the famous ingredient in ’tartiflette’, also ‘tomme’ cheese which is made locally, and ‘tarte aux myrtilles’, a strangely hard flat bilberry tart sold vacuum wrapped and only seen in tourists’ shopping trolleys- perhaps the way visitors queue for Devon cream fudge in Dawlish. The white cross can also be seen, oddly, on bottles of prepared mulled wine of doubtful quality, packets of wafers, jars of paté of uncertain origin, sausages, tea bags, souvenir penknives and singing marmots and all sorts of supposedly ‘savoyard’ delicacies. I’ll stand by the ‘Miel de Savoie’ any day as this honey has an extraordinary taste and perfume (my friend says it seems to taste of insects) but if the logo in some cases is not an indicator of high quality, locally produced goods, it will certainly mean that you pay more for it. Just in passing, the flag bearing this cross has a definitely revolutionary past, indicating the continued fervent wish for a ‘Free Savoie’ by a small but active band descended from those who did not vote ‘Oui’ to rejoin France, in 1860. They describe it rather as having been annexed. So it’s curious how this symbol has been hijacked. Since half of ‘Savoyards’ nowadays are from some other place perhaps no one cares. For certain these ‘cross of Savoie’ products can be found everywhere now, in supermarkets and in the increasing number of ‘bio’ health stores.
Bees, it seems require a good deal of personal attention. My friend, Jean-Michel has beekeeping in his family. He is strict about the need to maintain a close contact with the hive, talking to them on each visit. I had read in the local paper of a hive which perished when a property changed hands and the original keeper left. I recounted this story to him and he shook his head. He knew of other cases where happily the bees continued to thrive and all because the departing keeper took the time to talk to his bees and introduce them to the sound of the new owner’s voice. He says the same thing must happen if the hive passes from father to son. Not only will the bees thrive but they will be calmer to deal with. Ironically the so-called ‘best’ honey comes from a rather aggressive black bee which is apparently quite a handful. The hives here are set, in lines of six, eight or more faded, coloured boxes, sometimes just at the edge of a village, sometimes quite a long way up a track far from any habitation, including up in woodland clearings. The bees need a distinct territory so that they don’t expend needless energy criss-crossing others’ feeding grounds. The blossom from the acacia, chestnut and lime trees, various pinetrees, flowering shrubs such as azalea, as well as low growing heather and bilberry all produce differently tinted and perfumed local honeys. In Albertville, down in the valley on a hot July morning I have watched a large number of honey bees whirring and buzzing with drunken excitement in amongst a large lavender bed. Imagine the taste of that honey. The true ‘bio’ bee keeper must not use sugar or glucose to sustain the bees, must recover the honey naturally and must not super heat the product at any stage. While I have occasionally spotted a keeper returning his suit and netted hat to his car, it’s still quite unusual to catch one in the act of attending to his hives; it seems rather a private affair. Perhaps it suits the solitary hillsman. Bee keeping sounds quite an attractive and honest way to earn a living; take a little, leave a little; the bees coming and going to their own rhythm. I’m quite sure that there’s probably much more paperwork to complete than for looking after a group of humans.
Meanwhile, back on the top floor, I’m sorry to report that this little bee did not make it through to spring. I suppose my friend can have his hat back now.
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copyright Julia Austen 2015