So we’d done the course.
The Randalstown & District Beekeepers Association Introduction to Bees course, to be exact. We’d sat through the sessions, we’d taken the notes, we’d nodded along when people talked about supers and smokers and frames and foundation. We’d even passed the little assessment at the end.
And then we walked out into the car park and Bee Girl looked at me and said: “So… now we actually have to do it?”
Yes. Now we actually have to do it.
There’s a very specific feeling that sits somewhere between excitement and absolute terror, and it hits you the moment you realise that the “learning about bees” part is over and the “keeping actual bees alive” part is about to begin. If you’ve ever signed up for something and then thought what have I done, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.
But we’d said we were doing this. Bee Girl was buzzing (sorry). And there was a conference coming up.
The Conference Shopping Spree
Now, here’s the thing about beekeeping conferences. You go for the talks. You go for the learning. You absolutely do not go to spend money at the trade stands.
You spend money at the trade stands.
We needed suits. That much was non negotiable. You cannot keep bees in a hoodie and good intentions. So off we went to the UBKA conference with a list that said “suits” and a budget that said “be sensible.”
Bee Girl got herself a full bee suit. Head to toe, all in one, proper job. She tried it on at the Burkes stand and stood there like a tiny astronaut about to go on a very buzzy space mission. She was delighted with herself. I mean properly, cannot stop grinning, showing everyone within a five metre radius delighted.
I went for a jacket suit from Burkes. A full suit felt like a lot for someone who was still not entirely sure she wouldn’t just run away the first time a bee looked at her funny. The jacket seemed like a sensible middle ground. Enough protection to feel brave. Not so much that I couldn’t still leg it if needed.
(For any beginners reading this: get whatever makes you feel safe. Full suit, jacket, space helmet, medieval armour. Whatever gets you standing next to the hive instead of watching from the kitchen window. You can always change later once you know what you’re comfortable with.)
We walked away from that conference with our suits in their bags and the very real sense that this was actually happening. No more hypothetical beekeeping. No more “we’re thinking about it.” We had the gear. We were committed.
The Hive (And the Tools, And Everything Else)
This is where the grandparents come in.
Sophia’s grandparents had decided that they were going to get us properly set up. The hive. The tools. The lot. Hive tool, smoker, all the bits and pieces you need to actually work with bees without just standing there going “now what?”
If you’re wondering how much it all costs to get started, the honest answer is: more than you think but less than a lot of hobbies. The hive itself, the frames, the foundation, the stand, the roof, the floor. Then the smoker, the hive tool, the feeder. It adds up. But compared to, say, golf, it’s a bargain. And your golf clubs never make you honey.
There’s something very real about the moment all the equipment arrives. Suddenly your garden has a stack of flat pack hive parts in it and you’re reading assembly instructions thinking “this seemed much simpler in the classroom.” Bee Girl was more interested in the smoker, obviously. Because she’s eleven and it involves fire.
The Bit We Haven’t Mentioned Yet
There was one more thing the grandparents were getting us.
The bees themselves.
Now, there’s an old wives’ tale in beekeeping that says you should never buy your own first bees. They should be gifted to you. Whether that’s genuine superstition or just a lovely tradition depends on who you ask, but Sophia’s grandparents weren’t taking any chances. The bees were going to be a birthday present for Bee Girl.
A birthday present of approximately 50,000 insects.
As you do.
We’ll tell you all about that in the next post, because honestly, the story of how we got our bees deserves its own chapter. Spoiler: it didn’t quite go to plan. But then, nothing about this adventure has gone to plan so far, and that seems to be working out just fine.
The Good, The Bad, and The Sticky:
Good: We have suits! We have tools! We have a hive! We are equipped!
Bad: We have absolutely no idea how to put the hive together and the instructions assume you already know what a “dummy board” is.
Sticky: Trying to get Bee Girl out of her new bee suit. She wore it around the house for the rest of the afternoon. The dog was confused.
Mum
Bee Happy Honey
Northern Ireland
P.S. Bee Girl wants everyone to know that her suit is “way cooler than Mum’s” and she is “basically a professional now.” She is not basically a professional. She is an eleven year old who is very excited and owns a white jumpsuit.
P.P.S. The smoker has been confiscated until further notice. She does not need to “practise” in the living room.