...and speaking of the delicious bite of joy...

… Since last writing of the painful mess I’d made, I can now confirm that I’ve a new queen!

She’s a soft, curvaceous young woman from Slovenia… a Carniolan Queen.

Her new prospective harem had been milling around, without proper jobs and so got busy filling the entire brood box with honey.. every single frame was stuffed and actually dripping. The temptation to remove my veil and gloves and do a Baloo was tempered by an acute sense of guilt for having got them into this sticky mess in the first place! They desperately needed someone to lavish attention on and steer them back to colonial supremacy.

To introduce a new queen you have to stretch the courtship out into a sedate series of obstacles. Bees, apparently don’t ‘do’ blind dates well, and tend to mob and kill the intended bride, no matter how beautiful. It was a nail biting procedure.

(Quick story here: my dear grandfather, having waited for over a month for a new queen to arrive in the post from some far flung place, was so overjoyed on receipt, he promptly dropped her and stepped on her!)

I collected her in a small perforated box, stoppered with a block of white bee candy and a plastic cap. Inside this little box she was attended by a few of her original workers who groomed and fed her as I wedged her carriage between two brood frames. The queen less workers were able to greet her, check her out, but keep an enforced respectful distance. After a few days I removed the plastic cap. At this point the white block of candy was accessible to the queenless workers. Rather like some ‘Harry met Sally’ b (sorry) movie playing out, as the Queen dined from the inside, they now were able to eat at the candy from the outside, and at some point meet in the middle and greet each other like tentative lovers..

Well this must have happened, as yesterday, nerves bubbling to the point of a kettle whistling, I headed down the mallow daubed field to check on the state of the hive. To my utter relief and joy, frames has been cleaned of honey and were being filled with new brood and pollen.

So there you have it, the rhythm and equilibrium of the hive has been restored.

And now, at last, I can consider the ‘room’ above, the extra larder where they’ve been making liquid gold. For my first season, I’m delighted to know that I will have a little honey… enough to feel incredibly grateful, and guarantee a little bit of this Summer to spoon onto a Winter’s breakfast of porridge.

The queen has been christened as Mrs Mallow.


She packed her bags last night, preflight...

 

… and here was me, thinking I’d missed the drama, that this first season of bee keeping was actually mostly pure pleasure, only marred slightly by the boil in the bag sensation during scheduled visits in hot weather. But I could put up with that, bearing in mind the golden rainbow of reward I’d already visualised (and tantalizingly sniffed) arcing out of a table top honey spinner in August!

But the truth is, my queen had other plans that didn’t fit quite so neatly with mine, and in between these most recent of hive checks she’d managed to send the whisper out to her team and slipped out unseen, unheard, no doubt to hang out at some intermediate bedsit (be it branch, shed, post box or car bonnet) while her seekers flew forth and found a suitable new home.

I’ve been told this year has been extraordinary in that swarming started as early as March in some areas; due to the mild winter many have enjoyed, the spring flowers came early, which meant queens laid, and hives filled.. and queens got bored/pressurised by their entourage into reproducing and moving on.

I need to confess here that she hadn’t left me queen-less. She’d gifted me a capped queen cell, and her remaining ladies were nursing what appeared to be two more uncapped queen cells. But (and here’s the stab) because I hadn’t sussed that’s she’d gone, and wanted to avoid a swarm, I destroyed what was in fact the ONLY viable queen cell! It was at this point that it suddenly dawned on me that she and half her entourage had already flown, and I was looking at a reduced hive, with no new eggs. I carefully saved the remaining uncapped queen cells and waited… and waited.. until it became painfully clear that they were empty.

I wasn’t prepared for the shock of how utterly torn up I felt about this total cock-up on my part. I felt dreadful, wholly responsible and genuinely bereft. It’s a surprise, because, that’s the sort of emotion I feel for my children when I’ve irretrievably messed up somehow.

No ‘how to’ beekeeping book could’ve warned me about that. But maybe my skin is too thin. Maybe I’ll ‘toughen up’ a bit by next year when I’ll hopefully have a couple more broods to play guardian to. This would be helpful. Can’t walk around with a slap face every time the bees don’t follow the yellow brick road.

But then, if I did toughen up, I suspect the flip side of utter joy and wonderment wouldn’t bite so deliciously and profoundly as it does, when things go well.

 

 


Growing up

 

I think it’s something to do with having children.

There’s a growing sense of a need to make everything that I see, hear, or do count for something… enough that I can create a hook, a tab and carefully place it amongst other experiences.

I don’t want to sugar coat them, or preserve them in formaldehyde. I want the air to flow around them, through them, leaving them fluid and fresh, so that I might gather one to me, pull it on and wear it…

I have the strongest memories of childhood, not all of them wonderful. As such you’d think it not so very important to preserve those… But they are a real part of the making and moulding of this me, this Anna. With these, as much as the happier lighter moments, I’m able to dip in (sometimes involuntarily), tie a loose knot to the end and walk with this gossamer thin silk to the here and now and make a tentative connection. Occasionally, this connection can be a shock. But it’s by making this walk with the ball of silk that I’m able to see how life has moved, shifted and evolved. With this comes as sense of space, time, belonging..

I watch our children, our beautiful, spirited and incredibly individual three. I see these new delicate threads, memories … I want as many as possible of theirs to be happy, without struggle or conflict.  I know, what a load of crap. I mean really, what are the chances of that.  It’s what we all hope for though, as parents. There’s an instinct to rub it better, to distract from the unseen terror, the spider, the freshly gashed knee. And yes, I will rub it better, I will hug and hold … possibly for too long! But they must be allowed to make their own memories and link as they wish. I need to sit on my hands. I suppose that’s this thing called growing up. I’m still working at this, obviously.

 


Going for a chat, I took you with me...

 

Seems a fairly obvious thing to say, but, unless you’ve actually had the opportunity to spend some time around a hive, indeed stick your (veiled) head in amongst the frames, watch them, talk with them, listen .. it’s actually quite a leap of imagination to push beyond that initial response of ‘run for the hills’ when confronted by 30,000 bees.

So in an effort to bypass the hill run for you, I took down my phone and pressed ‘record’.

However, on listening back to it, I will understand if that instinctive need to swipe at imaginary airborne assailants still persists.

Here you go:

A chat with the bees

… and breathe!

 

 


Bees... after the pollen has settled

They’ve been with me for almost 2 weeks now, or perhaps it would be more truthful to switch that to “I have been with them”.

Worse than babies or a new pet, bees make time stand still.

The nature of my work requires me to sit hunched over a desk, resulting in the need to uncoil, straighten out and ultimately stand up. I’ll slide the kettle over, maybe slip outside and sniff the air. Now the bees are here I find my hand reaching out to my bee suit and my feet, on their own track of logic, heading off down to the bottom of the field.

I was told that as I approach the hive I need to talk to the bees, familiarise them with my voice. My first visits were I suspect equivalent to Joanna Lumley on helium, soundbites of excited, squeaky plumminess interwoven with self-conscious babblings. After two weeks my tone has dropped back down to my normal ‘posh’ drone.. perhaps slightly more appealing for the bees. After all, who really wants to be spoken ‘at’ by a wild eyed and caffeinated gibbering human.

As I head towards the back of the hive rather than trying to calm them down I find that I am the one who’s breathing more slowly. At about 20 ft, the uncomfortable tug of the bee suit is forgotten, at 10 ft the council tax bill can wait, 6 ft and a rude silence from a client is of no consequence.. and by the time I place my hand on the side of the cedar frame I am wholly ‘there’ and nowhere else. And breathe.

Walking around to the side, hand still on hive, still talking, I find myself crouching down, eyes level with the hive entrance.. many little open doors created by a sliding bar of machined wood. The bustling activity of these little creatures, wholly engrossed in their purpose..such a counterpoint to the calmness thats slowly enveloping me.

Today, it’s time to check right inside the brood chamber. This is about as intimate as it gets. Removing first the peaked roof and then the cover board, an extraordinary wave of perfume rushes at me. It’s pollen, nectar, honey, propolis. It’s bee.

Using the parrot beak hookend of my hive tool I gently ease it in amongst the fizzing little bodies and lever the edge of the frame into a position where I can slowly work my finger between bee and box and, wedging it beneath the edge I slowly lift one end of the frame up. It feels a fairly destructive move: in their constant effort to fill any and all gaps, the bees have welded these vertical rooms together with their cement like propolis. I work on the other end gently nudging little legs, abdomens and faces out the way and at last I have both ends securely in forefinger and thumb of each hand. Letting out my breath, whispering, apologising, I slowly lift what must be 2 lbs of frame. It’s carpeted in bees, a complete and perfect study of a superorganism at work… and there’s honey…

 

 

 


Trainers or Louboutins...

 

We all have to write a bio at some point in our lives, let people know a little about ourselves, perhaps selecting the bits that we hope will communicate, amuse, (impress) … With Twitter it’s quite a relief really to know you only have 160 characters available.  Not too demanding of detail, but enough to express who (you think) you are.  I put on my twitter profile: “Freelance Illustrator of  edibles (mostly) Cyclist, Forest Scamperer, Sheller, Louboutin Wearer. Just a little obsessed with figs…”

The one I suspect that gets the most attention might be ‘Louboutin Wearer’, but the one that perhaps defines me most succinctly (outside of illustrator) would be forest runner.

I started running (scampering would be more apt) in the forest for several reasons. 1) it’s kinder to the body than road running, 2) it’s free 3) it’s easy to fit in around work and family life because, 4) it’s on my doorstep…

However, there was a 5th reason that only became clear much later on, and now supersedes all the other reasons in significance and impact. The 5th one is “Oh wow, I didn’t know that.”

I didn’t know that I could run that far and not get bored

I didn’t know that it was so noisy in the forest…

I didn’t know my heart could pump that fast, and not burst

I didn’t know that the air smelt so differently, depending on the weather, the season…

I didn’t know that my head needed emptying so badly.

I have rediscovered something utterly amazing that I thought I’d lost forever in my old school satchel.  I have become reacquainted with a desire to know, to learn, to question. As each foot falls on deer carved pathway, my mind begins to loosen from the ties that bind it to the usual rhythms of work/home life.. and with this uncorking of my stuffed, distracted and chattering head, there appears a space.  It flows with the air, the bird song, the whoosh of a breeze through tall pine trees, and there, there with the flow, is a tweak of a curtain then a full graceful drawing back, to reveal questions and need-to-knows, dreams and plans, long forgotten (unvoiced?) hopes. They become clear, the canopy of sky, no matter blue or grey,  giving them an almost palpable aura of dewy freshness, a readiness to be looked at and considered with full attention. Without distraction.

It doesn’t really seem to matter what my feet are doing, how my ankles are adjusting to rock, mud and shale, whether my quads are aching or whether I’m picking an errant gnat out of my eye. The head space remains accessible, available.

And amongst all this cerebral stuff that’s going on, my eyes are drinking in this extraordinary, visual and ever changing theatre of the forest. The colours range for Monet to Van Gogh, depending on season and light.  This light can play tricks on the lower canopy, transforming it into the biblical burning bush. Shadow can create a moving form that seems to race one pace behind me … or was that a deer … There are bat boxes  secured high up in the creaking pines. I have been lucky enough to run with those bats as they loop within inches of my nose, glancing my shoulder.  One late winter afternoon, the light dipped so quickly that I became disorientated.  Flicking on my head torch I suddenly became aware that I was moving parallel with silent-running deer. 14 or more sets of eyes blinked back at me.  My heart leapt with shock, and then burst with the sheer thrill.

Running in the forest, and through its seasons, is perhaps the most extraordinatry and innervating aspect of all. If I was just to talk about the changes of the scent and quality of the air (if I could write with a “scratch n sniff” app it would help): the dry bite of icy air sucked into lungs in the winter; the first whiff of pig manure, pulled across on a northeasterly breeze from a farmer’s field as winter subsides; the punchy honeyed smell of warmed bluebells; the damp earthiness of the freshly watered forest floor; the drying pine needles underfoot as we slip seamlessly (hopefully) into Summer.

I’m sure that this state of mind could be priced beyond any gym membership (or any pair of Louboutins come to that), but no-one’s managed to make it an exclusive ‘members only’ club yet. This is a relief. It means that we can all join, for free!


T shirts and Tentacles

It’s been a while … actually it’s been a whole season since I last wrote!!

Summer has whooshed by a brake your wrist speed (seriously), and rather than delay and get bogged down with detail, if it’s ok with you I’m going to use this post a bit like a pin board, and stick up just a few of the projects in which I’ve been delighted to be involved… Here we go… and I promise not to do this again.

Quite out of the blue I was invited by Howies, to design some t shirts for their summer range. This was very new territory for me, but they were extremely kind and patient! The first theme was geared towards one of my favourite past times, that of cycling, with an emphasis on what it ‘gave’ me.

So I illustrated a fish (of course) on a bicycle, escaping the hum drum routine of swimming with the crowd! To my amazement (and relief) it sold out in the first week!


Howies then flattered me further by asking if I’d write a blog for them about the other thing I love to do: forest run. They wanted the dirt, the running at full pelt, hopping over fallen branches and sliding through slurries of mud, to emerge through leafy canopies into glorious sunshine or eye stinging rain! It sounds foul, but there IS something about it… feral, freeing and getting covered in mud… I digress.

Here’s a link to that blog if you’d like a peak, and the T shirt that went with it…funny how it turned out to be a bit like the British Isles.

As most of Britain swung into full Summer mode and the general public’s mottled purple legs turned from pink to brown, the lovely people at the Guild of Fine Food asked if I would design and illustrate a map for them to celebrate British Charcuterie.

As I began to research, it revealed itself to be a thriving and rather unknown industry; I had no idea just how many independent producers we have on these isles, and how diverse the British range of charcuterie truly is. Do you remember when we as a public would show a certain element of indifference (bordering on snobbish disregard) towards the British cheese industry? Yet now, due to a lot of campaigning and persistence  by the producers, and various celebrity foodies there is a palpable element of (smug) pride we feel when hunting down a semi obscure British cheese. It would be great if British charcuterie could enjoy the same level of grand scale public support.

Then there was the project for an Italian photographer who, like me, has a bit of thing about octopus…

The last one I’ll mention was a great couple that ‘won’ a commission through an auction held by the brilliantly innovative Do LecturesThey got to choose whatever they wanted. I got to illustrate it for them. They chose pea pods. Lush. 

So that’s it for now. If you made it this far, thank you for allowing me to spill a few bits of work onto the page. I promise the next scribblings will be a little more inspiring!

Off now to work on some mackerel stripes, bye for now x



Enigma Open Day (but you can visit any time....)

This is not going to be a techie post, so if that’s what why you’re here, then perhaps you should switch to another blog; I won’t be offended.

You see I’m writing this blog from the perspective of someone who is relatively new to bicycles… but absolutely knows she has found something, that she should have pursued many many years back.  I’d like to blame it on my first ever bicycle, but that might seem rather churlish. (I’d asked for a racing bike, but in the 70’s girls weren’t necessarily encouraged to sit astride a high top tube.. I mean, what are you supposed to wear! Apparently a skirt, and keep your knees together, mind). So instead I’ll just say that my initial burn of enthusiasm was all but extinguished, due to a poorly worded letter to Father Christmas, and a frog-green girl’s Raleigh bicycle.

Now however, I’m am ridiculously passionate about bikes (even frog green ones), to the point where my children are perhaps somewhat bemused at how often I disappear for a ‘quick’ spin. I’ve also become a bit of a gear slut.

During my meteoric rise of fervency for all things bike related my husband, Marc, found out about an English bike manufacturer called Enigma. Willingly pulled in by this mystery (yeah I know) vacuum, he and I went to their small but perfectly formed site based down near Eastbourne. He got measured up, while I walked around chatting to framebuilders and welders, stroking lugs and goggling at high polished cassettes.

The thing about Enigma is this: Like a lot of REALLY good bike manufacturers, they are utterly vocational in their approach to frame building and ultimately bike building.  It is a labour of love and devotion. However, in an industry where perhaps 99% of bicycles are manufactured abroad, they are amongst a mere handful that are still British.

It was founded by Jim Walker, who, with almost 35 years experience in this business, set out to reverse the pitiful decline of the British bike industry, which at one time produced in excess of 2 million bicycles a year.  (2009 saw this industry at an all time low of a mere 20,000 bikes being produced).

In just over 6 years the Engima team has steadily grown, selling frames to customers worldwide, to the point where they have had to move premises, and I, along with my family was lucky enough to be invited to the open day on 4th May.

The weather (yes, being British I’ll have to mention the weather) was abysmal, with grey morose clouds loitering over the new Enigma premises in Hailsham.  It started to spit and then seriously threatened a deluge of potentially humour curdling rain.

Never the less this light, airy, hangar-like place was heaving with enthusiastic, all-weather, hearty cyclists, most of whom were clad in cycle shorts and mud, having arrived by bike from all corners of the county to be here and ogle some extremely beautiful frames.

On chatting with a few of these souls it became very clear that if they weren’t owners of Enigmas already they were there, because like me, there is something so completely intoxicating about being in touching distance from such exquisitely built and finished frames.

To support and add a bit of ‘glamour’, former professional cyclist (and ex head directeur sportif at Team Sky) Sean Yates attended, with a promise to lead a 30 mile ride out for those who felt able.

Sean Yates with young Enigma fan

 A incisive and inspiring speech was made by the High Sheriff of East Sussex, Graham Peters, an active proponent of British industry. He echoed the strong sense of pride and support I think we all feel towards the Engima team. Having not only survived this very tough era Enigma has managed to actually flourish.

After an announcement for the ride out to commence, the High Sheriff whipped out a very glittery sabre and with one well placed slice, cut through a ribbon.

High Sheriff Peter Graham cutting the ribbon

And after fuelling up on a seemingly endless supply of eclectic foods (all mindful of the appropriate ratios of carbs:protein no doubt, “cough, cough”), a stream of Enigmas, led by a motorbike, headed out into the drizzle.

Jim is very clear that the strength of Enigma lies in the team.

“It’s all about the team, and not any individual. I’ve been in the bike business almost 35 years and I realised long ago that a business of this type is only as good as the people it employs, and as far as I’m concerned I have the best team I could have…. all are highly motivated individuals who share my passion for bikes of the highest quality.  I wouldn’t swap a single employee.”

 Jim Walker heading out

We left the open day and returned home…  I walked out to the garage and polished and oiled my Enigma Echo, Love at first (actually, third) bike..


Where do I sign?......

This thing called 30 Days of Biking….

I heard about it last year through twitter, sort of half way in to April, sort of easy to avoid the commitment! But this year in a moment of temerarious enthusiasm I clicked on the ‘pledge’ button.  The very word, pledge (noun – a solemn promise of  undertaking) makes it sound like a daunting prospect. The commitment to cycle EVERY day, regardless of weather, work, kids, obligations, or general lack of zing!

My family thought me brave, but rather daft, given that Spring was rather reluctant to make a show, and so my first two weeks were peppered, nay, hosed with everything Winter had forgotten to throw at us. I thought myself simply daft… and as if to prove me right, the first week of biking was pretty hellish, with sleet, hail, snow, ice; gloved fingers turned white, while my nose – turning turnip purple – dripped like a badly plumbed faucet.

But, powered on in the knowledge that I wasn’t the only one out there mentally and physically ploughing through this slurry of Winter’s doggy bag, I kept going. And then something miraculous happened.  I became addicted.  I found myself ending work, shuffling kids around, putting on the supper and then – almost without thinking – climbing into my bibs, woolly socks, Sidis, and gloves (with integral fluffy nose wipe!), and chirruping “see you later!” with a kind of Tally ho attitude! What?!

From that point onwards it’s been love, not a gooey type of love, but a nurturing, challenging, self determined kind that leaves you grinning wildly at the end. There have been times when I’ve thrown my arms wide and whooped (I am not good at this ‘no hands’  bit, so these were fleeting seconds rather than extended minutes); sung at the top of my voice some 90’s throw back hit.. with no one to hear but the cows and birds. It’s been FABULOUS.

Talking of grinning.. here is the month’s tally:

3 accidental (messy) dismounts, usually user error… hrrm

6 flies caught in teeth through grinning, a further 5 swallowed

3 wolf whistles (possibly aimed at the bike)

1 chicken almost beheaded (it’s a bit of a story)

Just shy of 300 miles covered.

What I’ve gained:

Stamina

A renewed love for the Sussex countryside

A Love of self propelled speeeeeeeeeed

For those who’re counting, £65 from not using the diesel pig

An inch on each thigh.. my jeans don’t fit but who cares, it’s either skirts or cycling shorts from now on… if Summer plays ball

Head space

Freckles.

Huge thanks goes to those great souls who devised this whole mad wonderful thing called 30 Days of Biking. Not once did I feel alone in this pursuit; there was a world-wide family of like minded cyclists who were pedalling ‘with’ me. Thanks goes to all of you for the good company, great photos and the inspiring/amusing words. It’s been so much fun, and I hope to see you all again next year… if not before!

To be honest, I think it wasn’t even that difficult to get ‘addicted’. Once you’ve discovered the thing that can give you so much, you just find yourself returning.  It’s a very precious discovery too. But it’s not one to keep a secret!

You ready?


Boing!

Being so accustomed to the mundanity, the reach-for-your-coat-and-waders routine, I almost forgot to take a second look.  I mean a proper David Bellamy kind of look.

Well I have now, and it appears that elusive Spring has soldiered on, regardless of abmismal conditions. Seedlings have popped their heads above the parapet of soil to  wave infantile arms (“Feed me!”). Vegetable beds that were cleared, are now proudly sporting a new buzz cut of young grass and creeping buttercup. Wood anemones are carpeting dappled, forgotten areas of woodland and roadside ditch. Even forget-me-nots have started quietly illuminating the rise of soil around gated field entrances. I should have guessed that Spring would carry on, regardless. She always does.

Time to get my fork out again..