Bathsheba resolved to hive the bees herself, if possible. She had dressed the hive with herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made herself impregnable with armour of leather gloves, straw hat, and large gauze veil—once green but now faded to snuff colour—and ascended a dozen rungs of the ladder.
Far From the Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy
When the frost melts and flowers start to bloom, I set winter marmalades aside, and line my shelves with jars of honey in various golden shades. I start to think like I Capture the Castle’s Cassandra Mortmain: that there is nothing nicer to eat than the best bread, butter, and honey. I want honey that carries an imprint of the flowers and bees it came from: spicy, rich leatherwood honey; light, delicate orange blossom honey; dark, woody heather honey. I might spend most of my time in the Cotswolds valleys, but eating honey on a slice of toast enables me to travel: back to Australia, or to California, or to the Yorkshire moors.
I have recently been taken with the idea of bee-keeping, of preparing myself for the hives as Bathsheba does (though probably in slightly more modern clothing), of jarring the scent of the hills on which I live and storing it away – tracking the changes year by year. It’s a hobby I fear would consume too much of my time and money and so, for now, I fear I must be satisfied with the work of other bee-keepers and their bees.
When I still lived in London, Hackney City Council planted a wildflower garden in London Fields. It sprang up almost overnight, when the days started to get longer and warmer, providing a welcome contrast from the usual burnt patches of grass where disposable barbeques had scorched the earth beneath them. As the season progressed, and the flowers bloomed, walking within a hundred metres of the garden was to breathe in the heady scent of honey. My top-floor flat was a short stroll away and, despite the pots of herbs I kept on the windowsill, it suffered for its lack of garden. And so, that spring, I spent weekend afternoons on a picnic blanket down in the park, lying on my back with a book, watching fat bumble bees flying against the breeze, buzzing gently towards the wildflowers.