‘She will have to go!’ said one of the arrogant workers, ‘It's the way of the bees.  Someone will have to kill her!’

      ‘Isn’t that a bit drastic?’ said Cari, who had known the queen all of her life.

      The arrogant worker turned and stared at Cari. ‘She is grumpy and ill tempered and if that carries on there will be a swarm. She has to go!’

       Cari knew she had to warn the queen before it was too late.

       Meanwhile, not very far away, a young princess was about to be born.

       ‘She will be our new queen,’ said the arrogant worker. ‘We will call her Myfanwy, queen of our home for waifs and strays.

       It was warm in the hive so some of the workers fanned the comb where the princess lay and fed her drops of royal jelly so she would grow into a queen. Others went in search for the grumpy old queen, intent on killing her. But Cari had done her job well, she had warned the queen and a swarm of bees took her away to a safe place.

       Shortly afterwards, Queen Myfwany was born. She was taken to the throne in a large chamber. The whole hive gasped at her beauty. But one gasped louder than all the others. His name was Lord Garnock the Drone. Queen Myfwany saw the Drone and instantly fell for his charms.

        The young queen was told that she would have to be married as soon as possible. The hive could not survive without children. She asked to see Lord Garnock, but was told he lived in another hive.

        ‘A meeting will be arranged,’ said a worker and away he went.

        It was Cari who took the young queen to meet the Drone. On the way there, navigating by the sun, Cari told Queen Myfanwy the sad truth.

        ‘You cannot go back to the hive unless you are carrying children,’ she said softly. ‘If you are not, they will certainly kill you.’

         The young queen smiled at Cari. ‘They will not kill me,’ she said laughing, ‘I will marry the Drone and have his children.’

          ‘Oh but you don’t understand,’ Cari said desperately. ‘If you have the Drone’s children, then he will certainly die anyway. That is how it is with all Drones. It is the way of the bees.’

          Queen Myfanwy rested on a flower. ‘I do not understand,’ she said sadly. ‘It seems I am doomed whatever I do.’

           Before Cari could answer, Lord Garnock the Drone landed besides them. The queen’s heart raced with excitement. She hardly knew him but they were bound by a love too great to ignore.

           They were married on the flower and soon the young queen was expecting her children. 

           ‘I have never been so happy,’ said the queen to Cari. ‘I have everything a queen could wish for.’

          Cari just lowered her head to hide her tears.

          ‘We must go back to the hive for the children to be born,’ said the queen. ‘Where is my husband?’

          Cari touched the delicate wings of the young queen. ‘I’m afraid he is dead,’ she said sadly. ‘That is the harsh reality of being a Drone. It is the way of the bees.’

          The queen flew in silence all the way back to the hive. Her children were born shortly afterwards. As the bee nurses tended to the young, Cari entered the chamber.

           ‘There is someone I would like you to meet,’ said Cari to the queen. ‘His name is Lord Melkin.’

           ‘But is it not too soon?’ said the queen.

           ‘It is the way of the bees,’ replied Cari, ‘the only way to survive!’

The Bee Boy's Song

Bees! Bees! Hark to your bees!
“Hide from your neigbours as much as you please,
But all that has happened, to us you must tell,
Or else we will give you no honey to sell!”
A maiden in her glory,
Upon her wedding-day,
Must tell her Bees the story,
Or else they’ll fly away.
Fly away — die away –
Dwindle down and leave you!
But if you don’t deceive your Bees,
Your Bees will not deceive you.
Marriage, birth or buryin’,
News across the seas,
All you’re sad or merry in,
You must tell the Bees.
Tell ‘em coming in an’ out,
Where the Fanners fan,
‘Cause the Bees are just about
As curious as a man!
Don’t you wait where the trees are,
When the lightnings play,
Nor don’t you hate where Bees are,
Or else they’ll pine away.
Pine away — dwine away –
Anything to leave you!
But if you never grieve your Bees,
Your Bees’ll never grieve you.

 Rudyard Kipling

My father and I left home when I was just fifteen years old. My father remarried and I made a life of my own. By the time I was twenty three, I had travelled many miles and lived a thousand lives. My footprints are embedded in land across the globe. It is no wonder my head is spinning with tales to tell.

      For some time, I lived amongst the Makah Indians in the wilds of the Pacific. It was here I fished amongst the great orcas in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Bartering with the Indians became a way of life; a life which I knew was totally illegal. I soon began to change and looked at everything in a completely different way. One couldn’t help but to do this, especially as I was so young and already felt I had lived a lifetime.

       I played music in mountains more spectacular than those found in Switzerland (though I have been there also and they are indeed magnificent). I have done things perhaps I shouldn’t have done and risked my life a million times. My feet, though small, have worn out many shoes through trekking places less travelled. And my heart is engrained with enough stories to fill a thousand books. It’s no wonder I have little trouble finding tales to write for you on these dark winter's evenings...but I do need to finish my books.      

       Remember, whatever it is you are longing to do you, writing a book, travelling, a different way of cooking, visiting friends you haven’t seen for ages or painting, you must find a way to fit it into your life picture. It is as simple as that. You see, it is indeed later than you think!

A typical day at our home for waifs and strays begins around 6am, especially from spring until end of autumn. These are the months where everything needs attention, from hens hatching eggs to our garden allotment and many things in-between.

At the moment, we have four hens sitting on eggs, waiting for the arrival of their young. This, sadly, doesn’t always happen, especially if we haven’t got a cockerel in residence. However, the hen will still go broody and steal anyone else’s egg if it’s available. They will even stay broody without an egg in sight. With these hens, we lift them off a few times a day to have food and water, hoping they will stop brooding. I have tried everything to encourage them but nothing seems to work. So we have this problem for around 21 days, often longer!

In the allotment, everything is growing, well almost everything. The corn, at least, is looking as good as we could hope for. Planting in blocks, rather than single rows, as sweet corn is wind pollinated and will have a better chance if the male flowers at the top of the plant have a greater opportunity to shed their pollen on the female tassels below. With each plant producing one to two cobs, we can look forward to lots of sweet corn in about 60 -90 days.  

Next to the corn we have a long row of runner beans, however, I have to laugh at myself (and I’m sure my kind and unassuming husband is laughing) as I have grown butternut squash in between, thinking they were beans too. I can see we will have a problem in a couple of weeks, when the squash expands.

Walking down the path, I check on the carrots and the courgettes, the pumpkins and the peas. All are doing extremely well, despite the random way I have grown them. In the winter part, the cabbages and sprouts, parsnips and swedes, are growing albeit slowly. There are rows of potatoes too, but I was late putting them in so we shall have to see how they go!

The greenhouse is like a mini rainforest, with plants growing taller then they ought and enough tomatoes and cucumbers to keep the village going for many months. It is quite obvious I have a lot to learn still, and will have to watch what I plant next year!

Around the pond, fruit trees are blossoming and so are the weeds and wild flowers. I often sit here, on an old bench that needs fixing, with a cup of sweet tea and my thoughts. Newts scurry around beneath the lily pads and often, in the headiness of summer, I see dragonflies mating on the edges of pond or hovering above it. It is quite a sight!

To-day, I have finished my chores and so I am sitting here writing and wishing that summer could slow down. I don’t want to miss a thing!

In our garden for waifs and strays, you will find a wizards’ tree. Once known as ‘Fid na ndruad’, the rowan tree has been associated with witches and magic. This is probably because of its bright red berries being the right colour for fighting evil. So it is no wonder that people in Wales who once believed this superstition, would often plant a rowan tree in a churchyard for protection. But there is no evil in the garden for waifs and strays, just magic!

      Rowan, or Sorbus aucuparia  (its scientific name) has many uses, from its berries to its wood. The berries are rich in vitamin C and quite edible once cooked. They make wonderful jelly and jams. But be sure you are picking the correct berries.

Rowan Jelly

Ingredients:

• 1 kg Rowan berries, cleaned
• 400 ml Water,
• gelling agent (pectin)

Preparation:

Place the berries in a pan, add the water and cover. Heat to simmering, then cover and let it sit overnight. Strain through a cheesecloth. Follow the instructions on the gelling agent package to make the jelly with the resultant juice. Should make about 1 litre of juice.

     Walking sticks are carved from the rowan trees smooth and silvery grey wood, which is strong and resilient. Spinning wheels and spindles were traditionally made and the bark was used by the Druids as a dye.

        So this incredible small tree that can live to be 200 years old, can sit in our garden for as long as it likes.  Whether or not it has magical powers, it is magical just looking at it.  And a song was also written about it in 1822 by Lady Carolina Nairne (1766-1845) that went like this.....

 Oh rowan tree, oh rowan tree,
Thoul't aye be dear to me.
Entwin'd thou art wi' mony ties,
O' hame and infancy.
Thy leaves were aye the first o spring,
Thy flowr's the simmer's pride:
There was na sic a bonnie tree,
In all the country side.
Oh rowan tree.

With mouths bigger than their bellies, I watch in amazement at the young swallows being fed by their mum in the corner of our shed. Can you believe they are fed up to 400 times a day! I can’t help but wonder at the amazing migrating adventures to Africa they have before them. Of course, they will need a lot of fattening up before then. So keep those beaks open and eat up all your food, I tell them firmly!

Occasionally a swallow nest may fall and this has happened at our home for waifs & strays from time to time. The simple solution is to fix a shallow margarine or similar tub at the old nest site as a substitute. Place the remains of the old nest or some hay inside, and replace the nestlings. The parents will hear the young calling and should continue to feed them. In the rare instance when parent’s desert or it is not possible to provide a substitute nest, the young will depend on human help for their survival. 

When the time is right, these incredible creatures will travel across the sea to western France and over the magnificent Pyrenees mountains (a high rugged barrier between Spain and France) before soaring over the Sahara desert to their winter home. However, some birds choose to avoid the Sahara and follow the west coast of Africa instead.  

With storms, starvation and exhaustion causing hazardous times, it is no wonder that many of these adventurers don’t make it to their destination. But it isn’t through lack of trying. They all deserve a medal for flying an average of 200 miles a day at low altitude and roughly 35 miles per hour. They while away the time by plucking insects from the air as they go. This whole journey takes around six weeks. Those that make it will stay in Africa until April or May before returning to the UK.

The male swallow will usually arrive back first and will sing loudly over his territory in the hope of attracting a partner. And when this is achieved, the whole process will repeat itself yet again and I will be ready to great them.

Swallows and their nests are fully protected under the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981, which makes it an offence to intentionally kill, injure or take any wild bird. It is an offence to intentionally take, damage or destroy the eggs, young or nest of a swallow whilst it is being built or in use.