The Farm Sale : a beekeeper gets a bargain

I always think it's such a sad sight - a man's life up for sale by auction. It signifies the end of an era, a final closing chapter, before the move to the little bungalow close to the Post Office and doctor’s surgery - a little garden of stiffly pruned roses, a glasshouse and tiny vegetable patch. An alien place for a man of green fields, rolling hills and wild windy weather.

I am here with half the county, catalogs in hand, to pick over the retiring farmer’s life, his tools, machinery, tractors, even some pots and pans and an old mangle. A strange feeling of guilt stalks my every step, as I watch his wife, still clad in her paisley apron, dishing out cups of tea to those, that have come to pick the meat off the bones of their married life. Her aging husband leans on his tall thumb stick, wearing his usual flat cap, overalls (with tractor firm’s logo stitched, where it belongs, just above his heart) and wellington boots. His faithful black and white sheepdog, with a simple country name like Jack or Bob, a little grey around the muzzle nowadays, sits by his side, old friends and supporters all around him. Local farmers and small holders alike are hailing each other across the field, passing the time of day, their rich country brogue wafting on the cold and frosty breeze, warm breath leaving ribbons of ghostly vapor in wispy clouds. There is laughter and gossip all around, talk of cattle prices and milk quotas, how little Sally did at the Gymkhana last week, and what the 'ell does this government think they are doing?

Although they are, to me, sad events I always enjoy a Farm Sale. You never know what bargains can be found – what is hidden in the next Lot. I search around; trying not to look too keen when I finally unearth the treasure that I knew was there, waiting for me all along. Furtively I mark my catalogue, decide how high I will bid (and not a penny more!) then move on to the next discovery. There's a little broody coup, with a fertilizer bag pinned to the roof to keep out rain, (£5.00 for that), a cute little garden statue of a pig standing upright, wearing top hat and tails and playing a fiddle. New, it would have been awful, but now it's aged, chipped and mossy and I will go to £10.00. My catalogue is duly marked and I move on, meeting friends never seen except at these events, catching up on the news, and wishing them good luck with their bidding, (as long as they don't bid for the broody coup or the pig!)

Viewing is nearly over now and the auctioneer makes his appearance, closely followed by his assistants; a little bevy of important looking persons armed with clipboards and Bic Biros - the organizers and orchestrators of today’s sale. The leader of the group - the auctioneer – makes his way to the first lots laid out on the grass. He’s a handsome man, smartly dressed in moleskin trousers, checked shirt, tweedy tie and green waxed jacket. Hand-stitched dealer boots with metal heels click satisfyingly on the concrete cow yard floor. His showroom gavel has been replaced by an old holly cane, two feet long, knotted gnarled and aged, with a heavy knot at one end, the waxy patina of time gleaming in the wintry sun. He points it, with exaggerated authority, to LOT No 1. The farmers gather round in a tight bunch, the country banter hushed now, as the serious business of biding begins. There's still plenty of time before they get to my Lot numbers so I keep away from the crush, and study the catalogue.

"LOT NO 134 - an assortment of beekeeping equipment, needing some attention."

Suddenly my heart beats faster, beekeeping equipment! I am standing by LOT 80 the broody coup; and the pig is nearby at NO 87, the auctioneer is on LOT 5. Plenty of time to nip down to the bottom of the field, where the lots are placed in decreasing value, and there among the weeds I find the objects of my desire. A rusty old honey extractor, the handle long missing, and a heap of broken frames. Some lifts and supers, floors and roofs all in a heap, for a homemade WBC type hive. All the hives are strangely painted pink and blue, obviously leftover paint from the twins bedrooms, and none of which have seen a bee for twenty years.

There is one complete hive standing on a rotten pallet. I check it over - it seems sound enough. I try raising the roof but it's stuck tight - probably glued down with the pink paint. Standing back, I rub my freezing hands as I consider the value. What others may see as a heap of junk I see as a useful addition to my apiary. Repainted white, I could make up two or maybe three hives from the pile of bits on the grass. Then there’s the complete hive, and cleaned and cannibalized the heap of frames would probably furnish two supers, and give me a bin bag full of kindling too. Hmm - I’ll go to £20.00 maybe more.

Two warming cups of tea, and a couple of hours later, I own the pig but not the broody coup. The holly gavel banged down on the fertilizer bag roof, sold at £8.50. Some obviously "out of a town" incomers (self-sufficiency types in new green buckled Wellingtons boots!) were looking very pleased, with their purchases, and I'd stuck to my resolve of not a penny more than £5.00. At last the lot numbers are in the early hundreds, and with a feeling of anticipation I make my way to the bottom of the field. "LOT 130", shouts the now slightly hoarse auctioneer, and bangs the side of an empty metal drum. He does like using his gavel to attract attention to the object for sale. I push my way through the mass of farmers, dealers and antique shop owners to the front of the group. Good! I may be lucky here. None of them look like beekeepers.

Nervous butterflies flit across my abdomen, I have convinced myself, I really want this lot, and I may even go to £30.00 if not £35.00. We gather round LOT NO 134, the pink and blue artefacts. A tall farmer next to me (salt-of-the-earth type) pokes my lifts with his walking stick, (My lifts?) and mutters something about firewood. I smile and ignore him - little does he know! The auctioneer’s gavel is raised high and comes down on the roof of the complete hive with amazing force. The homeless swarm had been in the air for many days, cold and tired badly in need of a new home for the colony, they searched here and there high and low, until one lucky day the drones discovered, the perfect home. Pink and blue it was, but warm and dry. Gratefully they moved in.

As the ancient holly gavel, crashes on the hive roof, I wince in agony,
"Don’t damage my hive," I whisper under my breath,
"What shall we say for this, umm…beekeeping stuff?" shouts the auctioneer,
"Come on Gentlemen, let's have a bid ...Gentlemen, please!" I glare meaningfully at him!
"Come on Ladies and Gentlemen shall we say £15 00? Any offers? £10.00 then."

I didn't hear the buzzing at first, concentrating, as I was on the proceedings, and restraining my increasing desire to nod at the auctioneer, (golden rule - don't bid too early).
Suddenly, and to my surprise, the farmers and dealers (with the auctioneer in front) start leaving the vicinity with amazing speed and little grace. There are bees everywhere, buzzing angrily, looking for the culprit with the holly cane. I leave with great alacrity too; without my suit and veil I am not so brave either! Business is business, however, and I am not one to miss the chance of a good deal, "50 pence!" I shout to the auctioneers jerkily receding back, and the gavel comes down with a loud crack on his clipboard.
"SOLD TO THE LADY BIDDER"

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