There is a little wooden handle that I have to wind.  It squeaks so much that the noise invades me to the middle of my brain, but it is a squeak that I will never oil for fear of contaminating the honey.  The sweet golden distillation of millions of summer flowers.  As I have seen the bees feeding on the underside of the beech tree I also suspect that honeydew is blended into the mix.  Honeydew such a lovely sounding word that hides its true nature; aphid poo.

I had a little helper with me today as I spun the frames and squeaked the handle.  The little man would periodically arrive beside me and demand “MORE, MORE!” from the tap that pours then drips into the filters.  I gave in to his demands, even encouraged them.  I think this melliferous overdosing is forgivable at this  special time of year when the cottage is thick with the heavy scent of beeswax and honey.

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