The Beehive under the Eaves

Almost a year ago, a lady rang me to say she had a beehive on her house. She'd heard from a mutual friend that I might be able to remove it. She lives in Gembrook, in fact I walk past her house twice every morning on my walk, then drive past it on my way to and from work. I popped in as I said I would to have a look next time I went past.

It was a large hive, with comb hanging a couple of feet down from the eaves and covered by a mass of exposed bees. The lady said she didn't want the bees killed, but her husband, who is allergic to bee stings, wanted to paint the house soon, and had been unable to do any gardening in the vicinity. A climbing vine on the side of the house was rampant and a narrow walkway at ground level had shrubbery impinging.

I explained to her that it would be a difficult task to remove the beehive because of the unlevel ground, the height of the hive, and the complication of a wire strung to support the climber, which the hive had built comb around. Allowing for that and two or three hours work, and the fact that it may not be successful anyway, I wasn't keen to take it on. I told her the hive would probably die out through exposure next winter.

It didn't. The lady is a member of a religious group that doorknocks and last spring on a visit to my house she told me it had survived and was extremely active. I repeated my earlier reluctance for spending time on it with no guarantee of success, adding that if I had time I'd have a go, but it would be a far simpler solution to poison them. These things play on your mind and it's difficult to ignore the sense of guilt that builds when you leave people to their problems.

Around Christmas I bumped into her and her daughter in the main street. They said a number of people had been stung and nobody could go that side of the house. I said that maybe during January I'd have some time to do something. As the end of February loomed, knowing I was going on holiday for a couple of weeks with Lib in early March, it dawned that it was now or never. I started planning the assault in my head and told them a date and time, suggesting they find something to do somewhere else on the day.

My friend Harry from Le Souef Rd. said he'd give me a hand, he'd like some honeycomb for a relative who makes some sort of poultice out of it for horses hooves. Harry's 75 and not really experieced as a beekeeper, but he's fit for his age and has a good bee suit and gloves, and I thought another pair of hands would be handy as I'd be working from a ladder.

The day arrived. Oddly, considering the heat we'd endured through Jan and Feb, it was a cool overcast day threatening showers, the worst day for weeks for mucking about with bees. I had an appointment with my accountant at 11.00am in Emerald and with that out of the way I scooted back home, got everything I'd need together and picked up Harry.

I smoked the bees heartily, cut back much of the interfering vine and shrubbery, and worked from the ladder trying to cut comb in sheets from the eaves. I brushed and shook as many bees into a large cardboard box that Harry held above his head, it resting on the bathroom window sill. He could use one arm and rest the other, so that part of it was OK. I was to hoping to get the queen in the box, not really thinking I'd be able to see her in all the confusion.

I discarded all the comb except for a sheet of young brood which I tied into a wireless frame brought for the purpose. The large number of bees collected in Harry's cardboard box were dropped into my hive with the young brood, which I had no choice but to put at ground level as there was no way of suspending it up under the eave, where I'd have liked to leave it. The discarded comb contained brood, pollen and honey and was put into two garbage bags.

It all sounds easy but it wasn't. Prising away the comb from the house started well enough, but after a while everything gets sticky, many bees are squashed, and it turns into a bit of a slugfest. There's masses of disorientated flying bees and bees crawling on everything. I was glad to be finished, but not at all confidant that the outcome would be favourable. I'd explained to the the owners of the house that I'd be back to take the hive away that night. I took Harry home, he was happy with his two bags of comb and I was relieved that he hadn't been stung. I'd been stung numerous times. My gloves were rubber gardening gloves that had no elastic in the wrists and many bees got into the gap. I had only a soft loose veil that tucked into my shirt and bees found their way in as it pulled out now and again. Many found their way up my trouser legs.

I checked the hive on my way home from work. The mass of bees had gone back under the eaves. I'd half expected it, but it was still a little demoralising. I went home and had a hot bath, consoling myself that a good stinging is good for you now and then. I thought about the plan for the next day.

The householders were on their way out when I called in after lunch. I explained that my efforts weren't successful, I hadn't managed to get the queen in my hive and they'd gone back up. I said I wasn't prepared to spend more time on it. I'd destroy the bees for them if they wished, or leave them if they preferred. They said no, please kill them. I had a can of black and gold surface spray so I sprayed the ball of bees a number of times as they fell away, then srayed the eaves and wall.

I did this with no remorse. I'd done my best to help the householders and the bees, at some cost to myself, in time and work. I sprayed into the little hole in the corner and stopped to watch. A loud humming was coming from inside the wall as a stream of bees came out. There must be more comb inside the wall cavity! That's why the hive had survived so well, part of it was inside. I never had a chance to box it successfully, the queen would have retreated inside as soon as I started, if she wasn't already there. The swarm initially must have filled the small cavity and then built comb outside, rather than move on something bigger at the outset.

The end result for me was a few hours work wasted, and about $3 for the cost of a can of spray. The lady and her husband asked me how I'd kill the bees as they left. When I told them they didn't offer to cover the cost. Most people do. When I kill wasps for people they usually want to pay for the wasp dust when I explain I'm not a registered pest exterminator and therefore can't charge a fee. Some insist on slipping an extra $10 or $20 as they know it'll cost over $100 if they call a pest man.

It wil be a test of my generous spirit when they come preaching. I usually give them a donation towards the building of their new church, in return for the pamphlets. I'll think about in the bath. No, it's a seperate issue. I'll still give them a donation.