BURGLARS BEE-WARE

..Or a string of stings

 LIVING in London's red light district of Soho presented many challenges but while there was evidence of criminal activity down some streets - prostitution, pimping, drugs - we residents were rarely affected.
 Perhaps local villains operating on street level made it too difficult for outsiders to muscle in on someone else's crime patch but whatever the reason, as a local property owner I never felt threatened.
 Similarly since moving to the countryside I've felt safe and secure but a recent spate of thefts in the region has shaken me and the rest of the beekeeping fraternity to the core.

PRICELESS: The humble honeybee

 In nearly 40 years of journalism I've never come across spates of hive theft but now there's an outbreak and I don't believe it has anything to do with the economy, social welfare cuts or other nasty policies targetted at the poor who are struggling to put bread on the table.

PARTNERS IN CRIME? No, it's my daughter

Daisy and her friend Tom.

You see whoever is nicking beehives and the colonies of bees contained inside must be one of us! Think about it. Not even the most desperate thief would lift a beehive without first going in properly dressed and while the couple on the left look perfectly harmless this is what beehive burglars must look like just before a crime; well let's face it a swag bag, face mask and stripey jumper is not going to protect a thief from a disturbed hive of angry bees.
 And would your ordinary thief know how to handle a hive of angry bees, anyway?
 While hives are not cheap - brand new they can cost anything from £200 upwards - the real value is the humble  bee inside which has become almost priceless this year following a series of rotten winters.
 As regulars to this blog know, me and my other half have been immersed in beekeeping books, enrolled on beekeeping courses and are members of the Caddonfoot BKA. We've got our kit, our hive tools and even our hives and apiary. In fact we have everything a beekeeper could want ... apart from bees. They're like gold dust and I won't get my hands on my first colony of bees until July from a Scottish breeder known simply as The Beeman.
 While I was aware of the odd hive and colony of bees disappearing in the region, it was a large-scale theft at his place which really shook me. Below is what he wrote in his online magazine:
                 .........................................................................................................

   Watch Out There's Some Nasty Evil Dirty Robbing Bas***ds
Last weekend we had one of our aparies robbed 13 top bar hives were taken and to add insult a further 25 were smashed or comb removed wiping out that apary and if i ever find them I will not be nice!
The customers who have been affected by this have been informed and all I can say is sorry that your orders had to be changed or put on hold. So as I stated in the last newsletter keep you eye on your hives with the shortage of bees and last winters losses in the UK bees are like gold dust. It is most likly to be other beekeepers doing this as to do this they must have to be booted and suited and your average tea leaf would run a mile when moving and smashing hives!               .........................................................................................................

My Warre hive looks
impressive but the real
value is what's inside ... when
my bees arrive.

It seems there's an apian black market - not just in this country but across Europe because of last year's rotten winter and non-existent summer - and break-ins at bee farms and individual homes make me suspect the thieves have a good knowledge of bees and how to sell them on in large numbers. When you consider a new colony is worth around £200 because of the unprecedented shortage we are talking big bucks.
 A recent wave of disease and pestilence, exacerbated by farmers using pesticides hasn't helped the heroic little honey bee either.
 So if any of you have any idea how I can protect my colony of bees when they arrive next month please do let me know. And next time you see someone dressed like a beekeeper it wouldn't harm to ask them a few pertinent questions or even take down their car number just in case.
 I only hope my goose patrol can thwart any would-be thieves - it's one thing having to handle a hive of angry bees but quite another having an angry gander on your tail as well.

SHELL SHOCKED STUDENT REACHES FOR THE TWEEZERS

.. Or how Daisy became a life-saver

 LEAVING Soho for the Scottish Borders was not a popular move with my daughter Daisy but this weekend saw her roll up her sleeves and finally embrace countryside living full on after I picked her up from her student digs in Newcastle for the summer recess.
 It was a baptism of fire. First she was hounded by the turkeys, then ran screaming as the goose patrol headed in her direction followed by feeding sheep who, despite my assurances don't bite, tried to take off her perfectly manicured hand.
 A wee bit precious at times, she has her own fashion and beauty blog the contents of which bear no relation to the muck, mud and dramas flying around here. But, after just a couple of days she abandoned her delicate pink pumps for a pair of green wellies, ditched the garish orange nail varnish, donned some denim dungarees and really got stuck in with the activities.

GOING TO WORK ON AN EGG:

 No ruffled feathers as Daisy checks out

her handywork

 After knocking out a few home-baked scones she then busied herself around the hen pen to check out the new arrivals before billing and cooing over Peewee, our one and only gosling.

 But she really stepped up to the plate when I brought in an egg and showed her how the chick inside was really struggling to break out. In an ideal world, and according to the experts, hatching chicks should be left to their own devices but this little critter was obviously in distress.

 "The rules say you stand by and watch and leave it to God and Nature," I told her. I wondered out loud if I should return the egg to its mother but she seemed to have abandoned it and didn't even attempt to peck me when I removed it from a spot more than six inches from her side. Daisy said it was obvious the chick would die if its mum had already pushed it to one side. She sighed, picked up her laptop and after half an hour she went for her make-up bag to extract a pair of tweezers. "Reverting to type", I sighed inwardly, but I couldn't have been more wrong. The tweezers were not for her eyebrows but for Operation Hope!

CLINGING ON: Wee chick

 Using the skill of a surgeon she spent the next two hours pain-stakingly removing the entire outer shell by tweezers having read up on the dangers of trying to help a chick hatch. One false move and the internal network of blood vessels supporting the little guy could've collapsed and brought about massive blood loss and a rapid demise.  She knew she had to remove the shell but without breaking the rubbery outer membrane but it was the membrane which was causing the trouble. The skin was so thick the chick was unable to break free from its surrounds. Daisy's normally squeamish and her nursing skills - on me anyway - are deplorable. So I was well impressed when she continued  in her mission to save the tiny Scots Dumpy fragment by shell fragment.

TOM HOPE: On his way to mum

All of his exterior blood vessel support system was being held together inside a very fine membrane underneath the more rubbery one which held the chick in a vice-like grip. After another hour of delicate work an almost indistinguishable blob of matted feathers, gunk and other yucky stuff lay on the kitchen table. Out came the hair dryer to keep the tiny bundle warm while I plugged in the incubator and set  the thermostat at 37.5C. We left him overnight still attached to the equivalent of the afterbirth or placenta wondering and agonising if we had done the right thing by intervening when we did.

 By the next morning he (we're sure it's a he) was chirping away and had managed to disentangle himself from the yolk sack which would have supplied him with lifesaving nutrients during the night. In fact I just read this morning that chicks can survive without food or water for 24 hours after hatching because of the nutrients in their system.

CRACKING CHICK: Tom Hope ponders on

his new life ahead

 Daisy was well pleased with the outcome and has now named the little fluffy ball Tom Hope.

  The next big test was to return him to Josephine, his mum, and hope she would not reject or even attack him. I've read stories in other peoples' blogs about mother hens going psycho for seemingly no reason at all and killing their young. Josephine put the temper and mental into temperamental before she went broody and she is still approached with caution by me while hubby gives her a very wide berth these days after feeling the sharp end of her beak! However, considering she already has five healthy chicks one more was not going to be the issue. As I put some feed on the floor of the coop I snuck tiny Tom under her wing. I'm not sure she even noticed. But the photograph above, taken a few hours later, reveals the miracle chick in the foreground is now settling down to life as a member of the endangered Scots Dumpy breed all thanks to a pair of tweezers, Daisy's steady hand and a night in an incubator.

 If you have any tips or similar stories about how to handle a difficult hatch please share.

Unwelcome visitors ..

Or, there's a mouse in the House

 I've never been plagued at home by rodents, not even when I lived in Soho where apparently you're never more than seven feet away from a rat ... the four legged variety, of course. My other half puts that down to the fact I never cooked when I lived on my own which is true to a certain extent and since I travelled frequently there was never any food left lying around.

 So, unless any furry visitors to my pad carried a can opener it was pretty pointless making a nest in a food-free house.

 However since I left London's Zone 1 and made my new home in the Borders, I've grown used to sharing with an odd assortment of wildlife ranging from bats, jackdaws and things that scamper around. Usually I'm not too bothered by these squatters as most are nocturnal though the jackdaws are noisy at around 6.30am, especially when they've got their young tucked away inside the eaves.

Trapped by a Twix

 Mostly it's a case of out of sight, out of mind but if you're going to squat somewhere you should either be invisible or clean up after you. As regular readers of this blog know, I'm becoming an expert in animal poo - no shit, really! Just a few days ago I noticed tell-tale mouse droppings under the kitchen sink and decided to take action. I went and bought a mouse trap - not just any old trap; it was a humane one so I wouldn't have to unpick a squashed body from a guillotine device in the unlikely event of catching the damn critter. I positively balked at some sticky tape - I mean what would happen if you actually caught something? How would you unpick it and how would you handle your unwelcome visitor?

 So, using a squashed Twix bar - Tom and Jerry cartoons aside, mice don't go gaga over cheese - I set the trap and went off to watch the TV. Returning to the kitchen to make a coffee a couple of hours later I heard a scratching sound and looked at the trap's window. Unbelievable! I'd caught a bloody mouse and it was non too happy about its predicament and neither was I. Stage two had not been planned, nor even contemplated so I do what any sane person would do in this situation - I tweeted, asking for advice.

 The responses were fast and furious. Some daft, some cruel and some unprintable but all had a common theme ... make sure your unwelcome visitor does not run back inside before you do. So the best option, it seems, was to free my captive well away from the house and at first light off we drove nearly two miles down the road. 

 Pulling into a forest tract, two bemused Forestry Commission workers looked on as I explained the mission. That was a couple of weeks ago and since then my unwelcome visitor hasn't returned and nor have I found any other traces of mice poo. And for the Doubting Thomas types, click on below for a truly happy ending.

                                         A HAPPY ENDING