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.