Mists and mellow fruitfulness
Autumn.
It sneaks up on you.
No fanfare, no bold announcements, no emailed warnings.
One day it's definitely late summer, and a day or two later you suddenly realise its autumn.
And here in the Scottish Borders this all happened last weekend.
The swallows that nest in the barn have been dribbling away for weeks, but this time last week there were still a few left, gossiping merrily on the telegraph wires, or chasing round (and round) the buildings. And then, seemingly overnight {{1}}, they were gone … and I've not seen one since. Inevitably there will be a few singletons passing through over the next month, but the 'residents' are now probably over northern Spain en route for sub-Saharan Africa.
In their place are the golden plover, wheeling in liquid flocks over the fields, turning in choreographed unison {{2}}, whistling softly, gliding down on arched wings, then jinking away again for another lap or two. They choose the middle of the biggest, barest fields, to give them a good view of approaching predators.
The nights have been calm and clear. While hosing the extractor down outside last night I could hear the noisy squeaking calls as skeins of pink-footed geese flew south from Iceland or Greenland, a sure sign that colder weather is on the way.
And, with a settled high pressure weather system in place, there's often dense mist in the mornings, with the hills gradually poking out above the cotton wool-filled valleys as the warming sun burns it off.
Individually, these are all signs that the seasons are changing.
Together, they indicate that autumn is here.
The days may still be warm, but mornings and evenings are appreciably cooler.
The bees get up later, and stop foraging earlier.
And my beekeeping stutters to a halt.
Welcome break
Not the motorway service station, but the enforced separation from the bees.
Don't get me wrong, I love my beekeeping. However, not having to inspect colonies, monitor mite, search for shy queens, repeatedly lift heavy supers (Ha! In my dreams 😉), or desperately play catch-up with the frame-building I meant to do last winter, is a pleasant change.
It's a chance to recharge the batteries, to reset the counter of 'frames still to build', and an opportunity to take stock of what worked … and what didn't.
The seasonality of northern latitudes provides a structure to the beekeeping year, and the weather-induced hiatus means I can get enthusiastic about it all over again early next year {{3}}.
Why not become a sponsor?
Sponsorship costs about the same as a large double-shot cappuccino a month and supports my research and weekly writing. Sponsors receive sponsor-only articles to guarantee bee-related reading every week.
I'm just a tiny bit envious of my beekeeping friends and contacts in the Antipodes where their season is just starting, but overall I'm looking forward to some time off.
At least, time off from the weekly inspections.
I'll still be giving talks every week, attending others, planning, writing, designing, printing, more writing, jarring, and — unless I can think of an excuse (any excuse) — building frames.