It is not uncommon for insects to have it off on me. A few weeks after the bees shagged on my flares, two flying ants landed on my hand and went quite hard at it doggy style as I sat in my garden and attempted to concentrate on an intricate novel about a century of family life in the American Midwest. But I felt particularly honoured to function as a bee knocking shop. I’d always loved bees, a love that has burned more brightly since I moved to Devon, where there appear to be as many bees as there were in the Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire countryside of my childhood. Sometimes one of them will fly into my front room, headbutt numerous items of furniture and leave. I would not put up with that kind of behaviour from a human friend, but from a bee it feels like a compliment. I would probably even go so far as to say that I’d fight anyone who thinks bees aren’t great, were it not for the fact that loving, not fighting, is the bee way.
There was a time when my friends would have been surprised if I had told them I was doing a day course identifying bees. Actually, that’s not true. There wasn’t. The course I attended at the Royal Albert Museum was taught by Stephen Carroll. Stephen is the county recorder for hymenoptera, which essentially means he is in charge of all the insects in Devon. When insects are obscure and aren’t sure what they are, they can go to Stephen to find out. As well as showing us how to identify more regular bumblebees, such as the common carder and the buff-tailed bumblebee, he told us about bumblebees particular to Devon, such as Bombus muscorum and humilis. I decided that of all of these the buff-tailed bumblebee was my favourite, having a certain satisfying chunkiness about it. I pictured myself befriending one and teaching it to sit on my shoulder like a fat stripy parrot.
Later on during the course we learned about some other rare bees who hang out in other parts of the country but don’t make it this far south-west. At this point I found myself bristling and getting a little Devon-proud. Why does Northamptonshire have red-shanked bees, but we don’t? What is so good about Northamptonshire? I wondered. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to nip up there and bring a few back in a medium-size van? We traipsed out into Northernhay Gardens with perspex bee pots, gently trapped some bees inside them, identified the bees with Stephen’s help then set them free. It was amazing how many bees you saw, even here, in the heart of a small city, once you truly opened your eyes. A couple of homeless men who had been sleeping under some blankets in the gardens also joined in at one point and seemed equally fascinated.
Most of the bees I see in my garden are bumblebees, but every so often a honeybee will turn up, probably on a reconnaisance mission from my friend Hayley’s bee sanctuary, less than a mile away. The sanctuary is behind the graveyard of an extremely old church, an apt home for creatures indelibly associated with death and birth and so crucial to our continuing prosperity as a species. In the ancient custom of Telling the Bees, which dates back to pagan times and is still practised to this day, bees are viewed as highly intelligent, sensitive beings who should be informed of all big life events, as you would a close human friend. If any flying insects are good listeners, you sense it is bees. I like the idea of keeping them abreast about the significant stuff happening in my life.
‘Hello. Is that the bees?’
‘It is.’
‘I am having a big party for my fortieth in May.’
‘Great. Thanks for letting us know. Remember, it’s better to overestimate on food than underestimate.’
Hayley seemed unsurprised when I told her about the two bees having sex on my flares. ‘It happens a lot,’ she said. I assumed she meant generally, rather than specifically on flares, but wasn’t totally sure. ‘I watched two of them going at it for ages recently. They will often last an hour. They tend not to suffer from premature ejaculation. The guy wiped himself off very carefully afterwards.’ Hayley has just one hive, built with great love by her carpenter boyfriend Tom, which sits amid ox-eye daisies, lady’s mantle and dwarf comfrey. Hayley cuts the grass in the sanctuary with her scythe. I know this because when she gave me a lift back from the pub once in her van she said, ‘Mind you don’t sit on my scythe!’ when I got in and almost sat on her scythe. Whenever I’ve sat in Hayley’s sanctuary with her, honeybees have buzzed gently around us and a special soft quietness has been in the air.
