Bees, rabbiting and the benefits of being left-handed on a postwar farm

With a fascination for bees, Bill set about getting a hive. In the meantime he has adventures rabbiting  - with a rabbit's revenge and bloody trousers. We learn why being left-handed was a real benefit in pre-industrial farming.

Rabbits, painted by Chris Thomas

Extract from Bill Clark's autobiography "Route and Branch"

Unfortunately this was to put a stop to me starting beekeeping! I had recently spun the honey out for a local beekeeper, whilst he and his wife took the combs off the hives. They had kept bees through the war years, and he boasted at how much a jar he had made selling honey on the ‘black market.’ Although many bees clung onto the combs they brought into the extracting house, and I got stung several times, it had only made me more determined than ever. Then when an old carpenter engaged on repairs to the damaged carts, mentioned, as he said his farewell, that he was also a beekeeper, I immediately bombarded him with questions. ‘How many hives did he have?’ ‘How much honey did he get?’ etc. Father, who hated bees, knowing immediately which way the conversation was heading, pushed me off. But I ran to the road and waylaid the man, asking if he ever sold hives and could I visit him sometime?

Having received positive answers to both questions, I badgered father until he gave permission to keep a hive – it had got to be as far from the house and people at work as possible! I prepared by fixing a second parcel carrier to my bicycle in readiness for the 9 mile ride, and upon hearing what I was up to, Betty, our Land Girl, asked if she could accompany me. It was a pleasant afternoon, and we arrived at the man’s workshops about an hour later. Looking back, I now realise he was not the world’s best beekeeper. In fact he was I suppose typical of the old saw: ‘A cobblers children are the worst shod.’ He had a row of a dozen or so hives, standing at all angles, with roofs covered in bits of roofing felt and pieces of rusty corrugated iron, all held in place with bricks and stones – although to give him his due, they were the modern Nationals. After walking along his hives I broached the subject of cost, and was horrified to find that the three pounds burning a hole in my pocket, needed to be multiplied by four to buy one of his hives filled with bees! After a bit of searching around his workshop, he managed to find the parts to make up a whole hive – in some semblance of good order – and said I could have the lot for one pound ten shillings – £1.50. Also come next spring, he would bring a swarm with enough combs to hive it on, but it would cost another three pounds. With some difficulty, we strapped the hive parts on my bicycle, and made the return journey, with
Betty commenting, ‘You have been done.’

Now only weeks later, with the furniture lorry packed to capacity, it took little thought from father to decide what would be left behind! A bonus for the family was the new barn conversion cottage: for the first time we had the luxury of a flushing toilet – even the new Council house had not had that, only an inside cold-water tap – a bathroom with hot water on tap, and electricity. Not that dad held any of this in high esteem, his byword was always: ‘What was good enough for my parents is good enough for me,’ a consequence being that he refused to buy an electric cooker. I offered to buy it, and mother and I travelled to Bedford, where, for the first time, she took out a ‘nevernever’ policy, for she refused to let me buy the cooker outright: I could pay the deposit and first instalment but she would deal with the rest. It was a joy to see her face when it arrived the following day. Father just grumpily commented that I had more money than sense.

Being so busy, only rare chances came my way to socialise at the Thurleigh Village Hall Dances, but always Gill was in the company of her older sister and a cousin, which rather cramped my shy style, but I did manage to pass over one box of chocolates – still needing the saving of sweet ration coupons, it should surely be enough to turn any young lady’s head!

The fact that my present employer was a strict churchman did mean that at least I always had Sundays free, so I was able to cycle over to Thurleigh to keep up with my fishing and rabbiting pals. One morning I arrived at my friend Peter Holowell’s house, only to find he and his brother Fred were just leaving to cycle in my direction – rabbits were being a big problem on the farm where their father worked and they had been asked to ferret them ....

Hear the whole story in the podcast "Bees, rabitting and the benefit of left-handedness"
https://archive.org/download/ch-2g-bees-rabbiting-lefthandedness/Ch2g-bees-rabbiting-lefthandedness.mp3