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Authors: Jason Webster
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the dirt track that led to the village. The hives were, at least according to what he’d told me, in the opposite direction.
‘Only way to get there,’ he said. ‘Stone’s throw away from your place, but this is the only track available.’ After several miles of the normal road, we were quickly back on the dirt variety after he took a sharp turn. Despite bumping along in his Spartan, suspension-lite car, it felt good somehow to be back trundling along rocky paths – Arcadio, with his leathery skin, thick-fibre clothes and flat cap looked out of place anywhere but in this rough landscape.
Penyagolosa came into view as we emerged from behind a cluster of pine trees and turned a hairpin bend on the edge of a steep incline. Our land was on the edge of the Penyagolosa massif, but the peak was hidden from view unless we climbed high up the other side of the valley . Despite its modest height, it was a magnificent mountain, strong and powerful, towering over the other hills and summits below it, the red, rusty stripe running diagonally through its exposed rockface like war paint.
‘They say it’s magical, that mountain,’ Arcadio said as he negotiated the deep trenches and dips in the track. ‘Dragons and stuff.’
We carried on driving for what seemed an age before Arcadio eventually brought the car to a halt outside an abandoned
mas
just off the track. We stepped out and he trotted over purposefully towards the broken buildings. There didn’t seem to be bees anywhere. I looked out over the horizon: we were higher up now, and the air was sharper and cooler. The grass looked greener, darker, as though more rain fell here than back down on the farm, while the pine trees were shorter, their trunks blacker than the pale pines we had. Many of them seemed virtually stripped of needles and had mysterious white fluffy balls hanging in the branches, not unlike candyfloss.
I heard footsteps behind and Arcadio emerged again holding something brown and hard in his hands.
‘Cow dung,’ he said victoriously. ‘Dry cow dung: we burn it and it calms the bees down.’ From my paltry knowledge of beekeeping I recalled images of people in white outfits calmly puffing smoke out of cans on to the hives before extracting honey. But were all those genteel amateur beekeepers in the Home Counties really using cow shit?
‘Arcadio,’ I asked, ‘what are those fluffy lumps on the trees?’
‘
Procesionaria
,’ he said. Parasitic insects, he explained, that walked in long processions – hence the name – and infected the trees and almost killed them by building their nests in them.
‘Big problem,’ he said. ‘Nothing you can do. Sometimes hunters just shoot them out of the tree.’
He got back in the car and fired up the engine: we had to get going. I looked mournfully at the dying trees for a second and then climbed in to join him.
After another ten minutes we reached an overgrown terrace. Arcadio pulled the car over, scraped it through some thick bushes and then brought it to a stop. Along the edge of the terrace, up against a wall, were half a dozen hives. They looked more like old fruit boxes that had been converted into bee homes, with a simple metal sheet nailed on to the lid in an attempt to make them waterproof. Meanwhile the hole at the bottom where the bees flew in and out looked as if it had been carved with a penknife, and even then only as an afterthought.
Forty-five euros each, I thought to myself. I should have haggled.
Arcadio opened the back of his car and pulled out an old canvas sack stuffed with a couple of dirty old beekeeper’s jackets complete with protective hood.
‘Try this,’ he said. ‘Used to be my father’s.’
I put it on: it was four or five sizes too small.
‘That’s all there is,’ he said. I noticed that he’d kept the better-looking outfit for himself. ‘Put some gloves on and you’ll be fine.’ The sleeves barely reached past my elbows.
I had no idea how we were now going
‘Only way to get there,’ he said. ‘Stone’s throw away from your place, but this is the only track available.’ After several miles of the normal road, we were quickly back on the dirt variety after he took a sharp turn. Despite bumping along in his Spartan, suspension-lite car, it felt good somehow to be back trundling along rocky paths – Arcadio, with his leathery skin, thick-fibre clothes and flat cap looked out of place anywhere but in this rough landscape.
Penyagolosa came into view as we emerged from behind a cluster of pine trees and turned a hairpin bend on the edge of a steep incline. Our land was on the edge of the Penyagolosa massif, but the peak was hidden from view unless we climbed high up the other side of the valley . Despite its modest height, it was a magnificent mountain, strong and powerful, towering over the other hills and summits below it, the red, rusty stripe running diagonally through its exposed rockface like war paint.
‘They say it’s magical, that mountain,’ Arcadio said as he negotiated the deep trenches and dips in the track. ‘Dragons and stuff.’
We carried on driving for what seemed an age before Arcadio eventually brought the car to a halt outside an abandoned
mas
just off the track. We stepped out and he trotted over purposefully towards the broken buildings. There didn’t seem to be bees anywhere. I looked out over the horizon: we were higher up now, and the air was sharper and cooler. The grass looked greener, darker, as though more rain fell here than back down on the farm, while the pine trees were shorter, their trunks blacker than the pale pines we had. Many of them seemed virtually stripped of needles and had mysterious white fluffy balls hanging in the branches, not unlike candyfloss.
I heard footsteps behind and Arcadio emerged again holding something brown and hard in his hands.
‘Cow dung,’ he said victoriously. ‘Dry cow dung: we burn it and it calms the bees down.’ From my paltry knowledge of beekeeping I recalled images of people in white outfits calmly puffing smoke out of cans on to the hives before extracting honey. But were all those genteel amateur beekeepers in the Home Counties really using cow shit?
‘Arcadio,’ I asked, ‘what are those fluffy lumps on the trees?’
‘
Procesionaria
,’ he said. Parasitic insects, he explained, that walked in long processions – hence the name – and infected the trees and almost killed them by building their nests in them.
‘Big problem,’ he said. ‘Nothing you can do. Sometimes hunters just shoot them out of the tree.’
He got back in the car and fired up the engine: we had to get going. I looked mournfully at the dying trees for a second and then climbed in to join him.
After another ten minutes we reached an overgrown terrace. Arcadio pulled the car over, scraped it through some thick bushes and then brought it to a stop. Along the edge of the terrace, up against a wall, were half a dozen hives. They looked more like old fruit boxes that had been converted into bee homes, with a simple metal sheet nailed on to the lid in an attempt to make them waterproof. Meanwhile the hole at the bottom where the bees flew in and out looked as if it had been carved with a penknife, and even then only as an afterthought.
Forty-five euros each, I thought to myself. I should have haggled.
Arcadio opened the back of his car and pulled out an old canvas sack stuffed with a couple of dirty old beekeeper’s jackets complete with protective hood.
‘Try this,’ he said. ‘Used to be my father’s.’
I put it on: it was four or five sizes too small.
‘That’s all there is,’ he said. I noticed that he’d kept the better-looking outfit for himself. ‘Put some gloves on and you’ll be fine.’ The sleeves barely reached past my elbows.
I had no idea how we were now going
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