The Honey Farm on the Hill: Escape to sunny Greece in this perfect summer read!

by Jo Thomas

  ‘It’s fine.’ He heads towards the wood basket by the fire and dumps the armful of logs in there with a clatter that makes Angel leap backwards. I scoop her up until she wriggles to be put down again to chase and bravely tease Filos, although he remains stoic and uninterested.

  ‘Just wanted to be sure you had enough wood for the burner. Are you ready to come and introduce yourself to the bees?’

  I gulp.

  ‘We’ll go up there together and I’ll show you what to do.’ He raises one of his dark eyebrows questioningly. ‘Then I’ll go on up to the cave and you can come back here. OK? You may even have some honey for your breakfast if you talk nicely to them!’ he smiles.

  I nod.

  ‘Sure?’ he checks, and I nod again.

  He picks up his rucksack and swings it on to his shoulder before turning to the door, his limp definitely more evident than usual. ‘Let’s go and meet the bees. Oh, you’ll need one of these.’ He takes a white suit with a hat and mesh face covering from one of the hooks behind the door and hands it to me. ‘Always advisable.’

  The wind is there as it always is up the mountain, and as we climb, the dogs weave in and out of our feet. A merry band of four. Just before the plateau, Georgios tells me to stop and put on the bee suit. As he reaches round to zip me in around the neck, my heart is racing, and I’m not sure if it’s the prospect of meeting the bees up close and personal or the fact that Georgios has got his arms around me and I’m face to face with his chest and can smell his pine-scented shower gel mixed with the fragrance of the chopped wood he was carrying earlier.

  As we approach the hives, I can hear the gentle buzz of the bees on the wind and spot a few of them flying in and out of the boxes.

  ‘The thing is not to get in their flight path,’ Georgios tells me. He is clearly quite an expert at this. ‘Always stand behind the hive so they can get in and out. Bees are amazing creatures.’

  He puts his rucksack on the ground, along with the stick he’s picked up to help him walk, and approaches the hives. As I watch, he opens up a box full of equipment and pulls out a billy can with a lid. He lights some sort of dried debris in it, then closes the lid, and it starts pumping out plumes of smoke from an opening at the top. Inside the white suit, a trickle of sweat rolls down the back of my knees, and I try and stand in the shade of the olive tree.

  ‘We use this to move the bees aside. They don’t like smoke because they know it means fire. By wafting a little, we can get to see how healthy their hives are looking.’

  ‘Is this the right side?’ I double-check I’m not in the flight path. He smiles and nods. ‘You see, they are flying in and out on the other side, heading in the direction of the secret valley for the dittany. They are very clever. They know where to find the nectar to make honey from. They know what time of day the flowers will be opening too. Here . . .’

  He lifts the lid from one of the hives and puts it on the ground. I can hear the buzzing now, but it’s not high-pitched and agitated like it was the other day when they chased me. It seems quite a gentle sort of buzz. He raises the smoke can and waves it a little.

  ‘Come . . .’ He encourages me over to look in. Feeling like a Teletubby, my suit all bunched at the ankles, I shuffle over and peer in. There are wooden slats inside the hive and bees crawling all around them. I remind myself to keep breathing.

  ‘Lift one of the frames out,’ he instructs, standing right behind me, and I’m feeling that waggle dance in my tummy again. ‘Here . . .’ He puts his arms either side of me and guides my hands to lift the slat and slowly draw it up from the hive. The buzzing gets a little louder, possibly a little more excitable, but I don’t find myself running for cover.

  ‘You see? The bees have collected the nectar and turned it to honey.’ He points to the wooden frame. ‘They have been working hard all summer, while the herbs are in flower, and it looks like their efforts are finally coming to fruition. It’s all about teamwork. After the worker bees bring the nectar back to the hive, the younger hive bees store it in these hexagonal capsules, then they cover each capsule with a wax cap, like here.’ He indicates. ‘It’s early September now, so they’ll want to have made enough to get the colony through the winter before they shut down.’

  ‘My factory at home shut down,’ I say, thinking of everything I’ve left behind.

  ‘It’s much the same. The worker bees will go quiet for the winter.’ He drops his voice and speaks quietly into my left ear. ‘But first they throw out or kill all the men!’ I nearly laugh out loud, but stop myself. ‘It’s true. The males do not make honey. They are only there to impregnate the queen. They do not want extra mouths to feed.’

  ‘And is it really true that they don’t like the colour black?’ I smile, thinking of the bees’ reaction to me that day I ran from them up the mountain.

  ‘Quite true,’ he nods. ‘And here,’ he lifts another frame, his arms still around me, ‘you can see they are moving in the same pattern, telling each other where to go for the nectar: the waggle dance.’

  ‘The code to the secret valley?’ I smile and look up at him, and he smiles back, and the waggle dance in my tummy becomes a full-on rave.

  ‘Now, we must look at the rest of the hives. Others may not be doing as well.’

  We check each of the hives with varying degrees of satisfaction. ‘You see here?’ He points to a cell. ‘Here they are laying. That’s a good sign. They are breeding. If they continue to breed, eventually the hive will become too full and they will need to find new hives. The queen will be thrown out and will take half the adult bees, her children, with her. They will swarm and look for a new home. Another queen will take over the existing hive. And the old queen, we must hope, will find Kostas and the honey farm.’

  ‘Do you think they will?’

  ‘If they are making honey, they are happy. So let’s hope.’

  I stand by while he checks the next hive. ‘How come you know so much about beekeeping?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice low and calm despite feeling nervous about being this close to so many buzzing bees.

  ‘After the accident, I spent a lot of time up here. It made me feel close to Stelios somehow. One day I found a swarm, wild bees, building a nest in the hollowed-out trunk of that old olive tree over there. I made a hive, and then very gently moved them into it. I found that spending time here with the bees, it helped; the nightmares weren’t as bad. I felt calmer and so, I think, did they. I began to build more hives, and they bred and moved into them. They’ve helped me through some very dark times.’ He looks up at me. ‘Now it’s my turn to help them.’ I nod, understanding.

  Finally we check the last hive, and Georgios smiles widely. ‘This hive has a good coating of capped honey. It is ready to take for extraction. I’m sure they won’t mind sharing a little. You must scrape off the wax cap and then put this in the extractor and spin it.’ I nod. ‘You know the extractor?’

  ‘Yes, at Kostas and Maria’s. I’ve taken it apart and cleaned every bit of it, so I know how it works.’

  He brushes the bees from the frame and hands it to me. ‘I tell you what, since you’ve worked so hard to get it ready, how about we christen that extractor together?’

  I beam. ‘Really?’

  He nods. ‘But we must make sure we’re not seen. After all, Maria and Kostas think I’m in Athens. But if we are very careful . . .’ He looks at me, and I feel a whoosh of excitement right around my tummy.

  ‘Are you sure the bees will be OK with this?’ I ask. ‘Us taking their honey?’

  ‘Call it a welcome gift.’ He smiles again, and we close up all the hives, clipping the lids shut. I find myself feeling surprisingly disappointed that my date with the bees is over. Georgios reminds me that I will need to check them regularly. Without these bees, other plants won’t get pollinated and all the mountain plants will die. I nod, taking in the s
eriousness of what he’s saying.

  We make our way back down the mountain, past Georgios’s little stone house, where we drop off the bee suits, and then through the cows’ field towards Maria and Kostas’s farm. Georgios waits there, in the shadows of a big pine, for my signal to say that it’s all clear, there’s no one around.

  I go on, past the honey factory and the goats, and pop my head into the farmhouse. Kostas is sitting in the big rocking chair by the fireplace in the cool front room, crocheting. Maria has gone to the cheesemaking factory, he tells me, and then to visit her family in the city, and Mitera is still in bed. Hopefully some of the mountain honey will help her back to her feet, I think.

  I run back to the honey factory, next to the empty beehives, and wave to Georgios, and he joins me at the entrance. We pull back the doors, and I can’t help a sudden rush of nervous laughter.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Georgios asks.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just . . .’

  I pause, and he tilts his head and looks at me.

  ‘I feel like the elves and the shoemaker, that’s all.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘The elves and the shoemaker. It’s a fairy tale. There was this shoemaker, and when he went to bed at night, the elves made shoes for his shop.’

  ‘So we are elves, making honey?’ He shakes his head, smiling. The time with the bees has obviously lifted his spirits. ‘We’d better get on with it then, before the shoemaker comes. We can’t be found here. Maria and Kostas must not learn the truth about the secret valley.’

  I nod, fully in agreement, feeling full of excitement and nerves too.

  He pulls the door to behind us, shutting out the hot dust that is rolling around the dry path and field. Then he puts the frames full of honey from the hives on to the shiny clean work surface.

  ‘You’ve certainly done an amazing job in here,’ he says, looking around the cool interior of the barn. ‘Now, first we scrape off the wax . . .’ He shows me how to do it, revealing the hexagonal honey stores. I copy with another frame, and when they are clear of wax he says, eyes alive with excitement, ‘And now, to the honey spinner.’ He goes to the big extractor that I have spent all these weeks cleaning, takes off the lid and places the frames inside it, like spokes on a wheel.

  ‘How did you learn all this?’

  ‘Like the bees, you have to build your knowledge, find your way.’ He brushes any residual pieces of wax from his hands and puts the lid on the cylindrical drum. His green eyes dance in excitement. ‘And now, we spin the honey.’

  ‘Don’t we add anything to it?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘This honey is pure and natural. The flavours and all the medicinal qualities come from the nectar of the wild herbs up in the secret valley. Now, you go first.’

  I take hold of the handle on top of the drum and begin to turn it. Finally, the honey factory is coming back to life. The drum moves slowly at first, and I can feel the muscles at the top of my arms working hard. As it spins faster and my arms ache more, my smile grows wider. Georgios reaches forward and puts his hand over mine, spinning the big wooden handle even faster, and I can’t help but go with it, the two of us beaming at each other, our eyes locked.

  Eventually he starts to slow it down. ‘And now, the other way,’ he says, and I feel like I’m on the waltzer at the fairground, not knowing which way I’m facing but loving the ride anyway.

  Only when we have spun the honey the other way, and then back the first way, and then the other way again, am I finally allowed to take my hands from the handle. Georgios pulls back the lid.

  ‘See?’ He points for me to look in. There, slowly sliding down the sides of the big steel drum, are strands of golden honey. ‘Try it,’ he tells me, beaming. Then, seeing me hesitate, he dips his little finger in and sucks the honey from it, closing his eyes as he does, as if it is indeed pure nectar.

  Carefully I run my finger along the rim of the drum and scoop up some of the sticky amber honey. It smells of the wild herbs I have come to love up on the mountain, the wild thyme and that little hint of something extra . . . the dittany. I touch the end of my finger to the tip of my tongue. My eyes on his and his on mine. His eyes have flecks of golden honey running right through them, and they sparkle as I take my first taste, letting the sweet, aromatic honey sit on my tongue, the flavours reaching all around my mouth, taking me back to the mountain, to where I walked with Stelios, and to the verdant gorge that now needs all our help.

  ‘So, how is it?’ he asks, still beaming.

  ‘Just gorgeous . . .’ I say, remembering the mountain as it used to be and feeling tears prickle at the back of my eyes at the bittersweet memory.

  ‘That’s because it’s made with love – with erontas,’ he says, and I feel a shiver of pleasure run through my body. Now I know why everyone wants Vounoplagia honey.

  ‘Now we just have to bottle it,’ Georgios says quietly. He shows me how to first filter the honey, in case of any stray bits of wax, and then bottle it in the clean jars that are ready and waiting on their shelf.

  We tighten the lids on the jars and hold them up to the light streaming in through the clean window, admiring the deep, rich golden colour. And then Georgios produces crocheted ribbons, like the ones around the dried dittany, from his top pocket, and ties them round the rim of each jar.

  ‘There, now take this to Mitera.’ He smiles, handing me a jar. ‘Say the messenger left it. A sign of things to come, hopefully.’

  How could I have thought that this kind man was up to no good! As I reach to take the jar, our fingers meet and electricity sears through my body once more. I quickly snatch my hand away. Clearly the excitement of reawakening the honey factory has set my nerve endings alight.

  ‘Now we just have to make sure we can do this over and over again.’ He holds me in his gaze, his eyes full of excitement and what seems to be a glimmer of hope for the future.

  We clean down the extractor and filter in companionable silence, so that, just like in the story of the elves and the shoemaker, nobody knows we were here. Dusk is falling as we walk quietly back through the cows’ field towards Georgios’s house and the path leading up the mountain.

  I notice that Georgios is still holding the stick he used to go up to the beehives. ‘Will you be OK getting back up to the cave?’ I ask. I feel strangely reluctant to leave him.

  He smiles. ‘I’ll be fine, really. I have lived with this,’ he looks down at his leg, ‘since the car accident. The fall in the gorge just aggravated it. I broke it badly in the accident, and it never really healed properly, but I was lucky. The medics saved my leg and I’m still here.’ He slaps his hands to his sides. ‘We have to be thankful for second chances.’

  I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

  ‘You go back to the house.’ He nods towards the little stone building. ‘And remember to deliver the dittany. I’ve left it in the kitchen.’

  I nod and think of the pile of little dried sprigs tied with crocheted ribbon. ‘I’ll remember,’ I confirm. ‘And if you see anyone coming up on to the mountain, give me a signal and I’ll do my best to head them off before they go any further.’

  ‘A goat bell.’ He pulls one out of the side of his rucksack and shakes it. It’s just like the one I hear on the farm as the lead goat moves around the field. It’s a sound that I hear all day and night.

  ‘How will I know it’s you and not the goats . . . or the sheep, for that matter? Couldn’t you just text me?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No signal; remember when we were in the cave?’

  I do, of course.

  ‘So, I will ring the bell and then whistle, like this.’ He lets out a long, loud whistle that makes me and the dogs stop in our tracks. ‘OK?’ He drops his fingers from his mouth.

  ‘Fine,’ I agree.

  ‘
You must listen for the call and then stop people going any further, whatever it takes. Tourists, poachers, it could be anyone. They mustn’t find the valley!’

  I know how important this is. Maybe I should admit to what I’ve done and tell him about Harry Henderson. I wish I knew how to, but our new-found friendship will be blown out of the water if I do, and right now, I don’t think I could bear losing that too.

  ‘Look, are you sure you’re up for this?’ he asks, seeing my worried look.

  ‘Yes, of course. Now go! I can look after things here.’

  ‘I’m worried about who will keep an eye on you!’ he jokes as I shoo him away, laughing.

  ‘Go!’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m going.’

  I stand and watch him take the worn path up the mountain, leaning heavily on his stick, Filos by his side. I’m about to make my way to the little stone house when he turns back and looks at me. My heart leaps and I feel like I’m riding the moped again for the first time, but this time with no brakes. He raises his hand to wave goodbye, and I wave back, even though I know that reckless behaviour like this can only end in a painful fall.

  That evening, at Georgios’s house – my new home for now – I replay the thrill of spinning the honey and then tasting it, the most amazing aromatic flavour; I remember with a wide smile Maria and Kostas’s cries of excitement when they found a pot left on their doorstep. I am about to settle down for the night when I get a text from Angelica.

  Factory is nearly finished. Reopening in two weeks. We can go back to work! You can come home! J

  I take a moment to think. It’s nearly time for me to leave Crete and I’m not sure how I’m feeling. I’ll have to go if I want my job back, and I can’t stay here forever. I have just two weeks to help Georgios keep the mountain and the secret valley safe until the dittany finishes flowering, or our hard work will have been for nothing.

  I walk up the stairs holding on to the smooth olive-wood handrail and enter the open-plan loft room. A large, low bed faces the picture window. I undress and slip under the covers, with Angel curled up beside me, looking out over the valley and the skirt of the mountain that I know is towering above me; where Georgios is. I gaze at the dark sky, the huge white moon casting its silver light, and as I shut my eyes, I finally feel like I’m living again.