Buzzing to a different beat
By Rebecca Aldous - Victoria News
Published: March 04, 2009 11:00 AM Updated: March 05, 2009 11:45 AM
Published: March 04, 2009 11:00 AM Updated: March 05, 2009 11:45 AM
The green door to the basement swings open.
A yellow hue from a dangling light bulb and a comforting sappy, sweet scent precedes John Defayette’s greeting.
“If you were the only one on the planet and had the choice of one other creature what would it be?” the 79-year-old asks, a knowing smile widening across his face.
“Rabbits,” I reply, thinking of their fast-breeding habits, rabbit stew, a nice fur coat and that, with the exception of a Monty Python movie, I’d never heard of death via rabbit attack.
Defayette moves over to a workbench by the door, seeking to prove me wrong. On it lies a rectangular box with frames slotted into it. Each one is covered in wax honeycombs and although empty, the smell of honey haunts them.
Picking out one frame, Defayette scratches a reddish goo from the wooden surface with his finger nail. The substance folds on itself like fudge scraped off a spoon.
“Propolis,” he says, before putting his finger in his mouth.
Bees collect propolis from tree buds and sap flows, he explains. It holds anti-fungal and antibiotic qualities and the bees spread it around the entrance to their hives, sparing them from infections.
While talking Defayette digs a small blue bottle out of a cardboard box, untwists the top and fills an eyedropper with a dark brown liquid.
“This is propolis with alcohol,” he says, placing the open bottle under my nose.
A strong scent races up my nostrils, kicking me back to the moment I first smelled vodka. Defayette places the eyedropper on his tongue.
“I love it,” he says. “It kills halitosis and gingivitis.”
The basement is full of plastic buckets, metal tubs and glass jam jars full of golden tar, equipment and rewards from Defayette’s five years of beekeeping. The first year he placed two wooden hives on small tables beside the ivy-ridden fence in his backyard bordering Grant Street in Fernwood. Now he has seven hives.
Each can produce up to 70 pounds of honey per summer, another reason he notes one would want bees with them if nothing else. “In a typical season, I probably have a million bees in this yard,” he says, pointing to the open door.
Defayette’s “girls” tirelessly roam a two-kilometre radius from the garden. They like the clover at Stadacona Park and blossom clusters engulfing Victoria’s boulevards. They also enjoy the neighbourhood’s flowers and, of course, the apple and cherry tree in Defayette’s yard. The variety is evident on the frames, as he points to the shades of brown, gold and yellow throughout the honeycomb. Each shade reveals its own flavour, he notes.
“Rabbits,” he says, shaking his head as he picks up two small shot glasses.
“When you smell this you will think of the nectar of the gods,” he says, filling the cups with a clear liquid. “This is the original wine, mead.”
Over in Esquimalt, Bob Chappell’s basement looks very different. It’s full of spools of wires, soldering equipment and gadgets. He too is a beekeeper, but for a native species – orchard mason bees. They are solitary, don’t make honey, and their blue-black sheen sees them often mistaken for flies.
Upstairs in a small back room overlooking the yard, he quietly slips on a DVD. A giant black and white bee pops onto the screen.
“They only have one thought on their minds,” he says, as we watch footage of the bees bringing pollen back to long tubular holes cut into a flat, wooden slat.
Chappell guesses he’s captured 100 hours of bee footage from a tiny camera mounted on Plexiglas on top of the tubes.
In and out they go, each time bringing more pollen on the bottom of their abdomen to add to a pollen ball. The bee then lays a egg on the ball, which will provide food to the larvae, before sealing the two components off with mud and starting the process again.
“I never really paid much attention to bees before,” Chappell says. “I have quite an appreciation for them now.”
Once the larvae consumes the pollen ball and spins a cocoon, Chappell takes them out of the tubes, washes the small brown cocoons in a tub to rid them of mites and places them in a box. He hopes some will hatch this month and begin their six-week life cycle undertaking the hectic job of pollinating up to 1,600 flowers a day.
There are hundreds of urban beekeepers tending to their colonies in the Island’s major cities, especially in Victoria, Vancouver Island bee inspector Brenda Jager says, noting bees and cities make good bedfellows.
In cities, flowers bloom all summer long as green thumbs tenderly water them, and the bees’ work in return boosts the productivity of herb gardens.
For two years Jager has travelled as far north as Campbell River checking the health of beekeeper’s hives and educating newbies. “For me and for many people, (bees) are the top of the insect order for intelligence and the ability to abstract,” she says. “You could say they think.”
raldous@vicnews.com
A yellow hue from a dangling light bulb and a comforting sappy, sweet scent precedes John Defayette’s greeting.
“If you were the only one on the planet and had the choice of one other creature what would it be?” the 79-year-old asks, a knowing smile widening across his face.
“Rabbits,” I reply, thinking of their fast-breeding habits, rabbit stew, a nice fur coat and that, with the exception of a Monty Python movie, I’d never heard of death via rabbit attack.
Defayette moves over to a workbench by the door, seeking to prove me wrong. On it lies a rectangular box with frames slotted into it. Each one is covered in wax honeycombs and although empty, the smell of honey haunts them.
Picking out one frame, Defayette scratches a reddish goo from the wooden surface with his finger nail. The substance folds on itself like fudge scraped off a spoon.
“Propolis,” he says, before putting his finger in his mouth.
Bees collect propolis from tree buds and sap flows, he explains. It holds anti-fungal and antibiotic qualities and the bees spread it around the entrance to their hives, sparing them from infections.
While talking Defayette digs a small blue bottle out of a cardboard box, untwists the top and fills an eyedropper with a dark brown liquid.
“This is propolis with alcohol,” he says, placing the open bottle under my nose.
A strong scent races up my nostrils, kicking me back to the moment I first smelled vodka. Defayette places the eyedropper on his tongue.
“I love it,” he says. “It kills halitosis and gingivitis.”
The basement is full of plastic buckets, metal tubs and glass jam jars full of golden tar, equipment and rewards from Defayette’s five years of beekeeping. The first year he placed two wooden hives on small tables beside the ivy-ridden fence in his backyard bordering Grant Street in Fernwood. Now he has seven hives.
Each can produce up to 70 pounds of honey per summer, another reason he notes one would want bees with them if nothing else. “In a typical season, I probably have a million bees in this yard,” he says, pointing to the open door.
Defayette’s “girls” tirelessly roam a two-kilometre radius from the garden. They like the clover at Stadacona Park and blossom clusters engulfing Victoria’s boulevards. They also enjoy the neighbourhood’s flowers and, of course, the apple and cherry tree in Defayette’s yard. The variety is evident on the frames, as he points to the shades of brown, gold and yellow throughout the honeycomb. Each shade reveals its own flavour, he notes.
“Rabbits,” he says, shaking his head as he picks up two small shot glasses.
“When you smell this you will think of the nectar of the gods,” he says, filling the cups with a clear liquid. “This is the original wine, mead.”
Over in Esquimalt, Bob Chappell’s basement looks very different. It’s full of spools of wires, soldering equipment and gadgets. He too is a beekeeper, but for a native species – orchard mason bees. They are solitary, don’t make honey, and their blue-black sheen sees them often mistaken for flies.
Upstairs in a small back room overlooking the yard, he quietly slips on a DVD. A giant black and white bee pops onto the screen.
“They only have one thought on their minds,” he says, as we watch footage of the bees bringing pollen back to long tubular holes cut into a flat, wooden slat.
Chappell guesses he’s captured 100 hours of bee footage from a tiny camera mounted on Plexiglas on top of the tubes.
In and out they go, each time bringing more pollen on the bottom of their abdomen to add to a pollen ball. The bee then lays a egg on the ball, which will provide food to the larvae, before sealing the two components off with mud and starting the process again.
“I never really paid much attention to bees before,” Chappell says. “I have quite an appreciation for them now.”
Once the larvae consumes the pollen ball and spins a cocoon, Chappell takes them out of the tubes, washes the small brown cocoons in a tub to rid them of mites and places them in a box. He hopes some will hatch this month and begin their six-week life cycle undertaking the hectic job of pollinating up to 1,600 flowers a day.
There are hundreds of urban beekeepers tending to their colonies in the Island’s major cities, especially in Victoria, Vancouver Island bee inspector Brenda Jager says, noting bees and cities make good bedfellows.
In cities, flowers bloom all summer long as green thumbs tenderly water them, and the bees’ work in return boosts the productivity of herb gardens.
For two years Jager has travelled as far north as Campbell River checking the health of beekeeper’s hives and educating newbies. “For me and for many people, (bees) are the top of the insect order for intelligence and the ability to abstract,” she says. “You could say they think.”
raldous@vicnews.com
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