Well, what a busy time, yet little to show for it. My hives were doing just peachy, and I had them inspected for AFB (American Foul Brood), and they were clean, completely disease free. To inspect, every single frame with brood has to be examined. My smaller ones were checked quickly, and each queen was spotted (always a great thing). Then I moved on to the new, large hive. I kept checking for the frames with brood, further and further down the hive. There was no brood. Not a single grub or capped brood at all. Nothing.
- That the queen is dead or gone.
- That the youngest bees were already a few weeks old.
- That it would take several more weeks before I could get fresh brood to hatch.
- No chance of quickly recovering it, without a spare queen and frames of brood.
- Goodbye hive.
I decided to merge the two boxes onto the other two hives which only had one brood box each, so added them to the other boxes with a couple of sheets of newspaper between to stop them fighting. By the time the bees on each side had chewed their way through to meet, their scents had mingled, so no fighting. Merge successful.
Because I did the merge in the daytime (late, though) there were still a few foragers left behind. One of the bees must have got a little confused, as it took up residence near the washing line. It was not a happy little chappy. Unfortunately, this little Rogue One decided to get in the face of any large creature hanging around the washing line. Which included Beloved. It was with great mirth that I witnessed Beloved careening around the house waving a tea-towel in one hand, underwear in the other, and yelling blue murder. She did not see the funny side for some time.
Being the magnificent husband I am, I volunteer to peg up the washing, which was strewn around the line in a substantial radius. This was going swimmingly, until Rogue One returned. I can happily work a beehive, with forty thousand grumpy lady zooming around, but this one bee had me running after getting in my face and head butting me three or four times.
Thankfully, poor Rogue One only lasted for a few days, before going to that happy little hive in the sky. That little honey grabber had my respect. Rogue One, you will have a hive in the hereafter, you will find that hive, you will belong. We will get to hang up washing in peace.
This post is for you, Rogue One.