I look up to the sky, it’s a glorious uninterrupted blue…

It’s the 3^rd of January. It’s 4.25pm. I’m standing in the garden looking up to the sky and it’s still daylight. The simple stretch of daylight minute by minute, day by day is enough to cheer me. January always feels like the beginning for me, not because of the turn of the calendar or New Year Resolutions (I don’t believe in them) but because the darkest days of winter are behind me and I can look forward to days lengthening and warming. As if he reads my mind, there’s a Robin in the bare branches of the tree beside me, singing loudly; I’m not the only one rejoicing the beautiful frosty twilight. It’s cold, I fold my arms around me, I only came out to put something in the bin. I stand entranced by his song. He’s sitting high up near the tallest branches, watching me watching him; he’s clearly showing off. I quietly open the door to the house and call my husband out to hear him but he flies away. His performance was for me alone.

There’s a frost settling already, in fact there’s hardly been a thaw. It’s the fourth day of cold, dry ‘real winter’ weather. A few days ago, we woke to a couple of inches of snow, the nine-year-old shovelled and piled it up to make a jump on his bike, there’s still a decent mound of it sitting proud like a glacial molehill. I look up to the sky, it’s fading into orange, I can’t help but smile. I check the time, yep it’s 4.30pm, two weeks ago it would have been ink dark by now. I feel lighter, happier, hopeful. I turn away from the tree empty of my noisy Robin friend and walk towards my hives. I bend over and peer towards into the first tiny arrow-slit entrance. A futile gesture; I cannot see inside and it’s far too cold for any bees to come out. I strain to listen for the buzz I hope to hear inside. I think I hear a murmuring hum but it’s probably only my imagination. I stand back and look hopelessly at the desolate hive. Please let them be dry and warm inside. I imagine them balled up around the queen, fanning their wings to maintain a steady temperature, working their constant colony circle, rotating from the inside out and back again. Please be ok, please.

I move along to my second hive and do my useless peering at the entrance again. There’s a bee lying on the ledge of the entrance and two more on the landing board. Little curled up balls of pussy willow fur crystallised in ice. I remind myself that it’s all a natural process – survival of the fittest, the bees inside push any dead or dying bees out. They can’t afford to carry or feed weaklings. Wild survival can seem brutal especially when I’m in the habit of anthropomorphising my bees. Maybe it’s because, in a home full of males, they are my only female compatriots. I feel a feminist pull towards the need to support ‘my girls.’ I’ve become a cheerleader for them and the magical work they do. This one is the weaker hive, it’ll be a miracle if it survives. I feel a kick of guilt in my stomach, I meant to replenish its sugar fondant before Christmas, but I forgot and now it’s been too cold to open the hive to do it. A weak colony needs all the help it can get and they didn’t have much in the way of honey stores, if they starve it’ll be my fault. Please be alive, please. I feel a gut flutter of panic at the thought of losing them. I need my bees to marvel at in spring, I need them to distract me from the daily grind, I need a colony to give me hope and demonstrate the power of the collective. The lengthened day has given way to murky dusk now and I’m cold. I bid my bees goodnight and head inside.

The next day I’m out in the black of the morning, the frost is glistening. It twinkles, like the night sky laid at my feet. Every external surface is encased with a special, sparkling winter coat. Each leaf and twig look like it’s been dipped in sugar. It’s no wonder that magical worlds are often set in Narnian winters. As the day begins daylight reveals a world of white, everything frozen to a standstill. A walk around the garden sounds like a million tiny eggshells cracking under my feet. The wildlife pond is frozen solid, a fossilised world is trapped underneath – eery and beautiful. I stroke the surface of the ice; smooth and cold and otherworldly. I knock it with my knuckles, it’s thick and solid, it lures me towards it. At another time youth would have bade me to stand on it but now my forty-four-year-old feet stay firmly on the ground.

“What are you doing mum?” the nine-year-old appears behind me. He’s dressed for a summer’s day in shorts, t-shirt and a pair of flip flops; he’s a boy immune to seasonal dressing.

“Wow! That’s so cool!” He has no wish to stand and stare, it takes three seconds before he picks up a stone and begins thrashing at the surface. The ice is too thick, it only makes chipped white dents. He disappears and returns with a sledgehammer.

“Really?” I ask redundantly. His eyes sparkle with excitement, his face a grin of expectation. Like millions of other children, he should be at school. I’m sorry that his life has shrunk to me and the footprint of this house once more. I leave him to it, better not to watch. I’m not spoil his mini neanderthal adventure, only a day of home school awaits, the thought makes my heart sink.

There’s a trail of frozen pine needles on the ground that lead to where the Christmas tree is laid, toppled on its side waiting to be chopped into firewood. It’s sad to see it discarded like unwanted debris. A few weeks ago, it took pride of place festooned in festive colour. Though I suppose its current icy frosting is a more natural seasonal adornment than artificial fairy lights. There’s a thud followed by a splintering crack behind me and cry of delight. I look over my shoulder and the nine-year-old is hopping with glee, barbarian man is only a sheet of ice away.

I walk over to check my hives. They stand like frozen oversized Lego cubes. I don’t trust that the thin walls of my man-made hives are enough to protect them against such cold. A natural nest is made inside a hollow tree trunk and I know the thin wooden shell of my Langstroth hives are no match for the dense thick walls of a tree. This year I’m going to try a horizontal hive for the first time, these hives have thicker walls and emulate the set-up of a natural log nest much better than a vertical hive. First, however, I need my bees to survive the rest of this winter. There’s one dead bee, frozen white and curled up like a prawn outside one hive. My primitive icebreaker appears beside me. “This is no weather for my bees.” I say, I look up to the sky, it’s a glorious uninterrupted blue. It’s a beautiful morning to be alive. I walk away with my summer clad boy and let nature look after herself.

Photo by jpeter2 is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA

Natasha Geary

I’m a nature-loving, horse riding, beekeeping Script editor & writer of fiction. Working on my third novel – ‘The Beekeeper’.

www.natashageary.com