Bee in a thimble

Even during these overcast July days sentenced by St Swithen, there is usually a time when the sun is permitted a short period of parole. One day recently I found Sherpa, during one of these sunny intervals, stretched out in a state of torpor near one of the bay windows upstairs from where, when she deigns to half open her eyes, she can observe bird life. As I stroked her silky, sun-warmed fur I looked out and saw bees.

Several years ago a swarm of honey bees came and built a hive above the bay window and under the roof. When I failed to see them this spring I concluded they had been wiped out by colony collapse disorder, or had been discovered by the men who painted the house before they emerged from their winter lethargy (the bees that is, not the men), and had been exterminated.

Apart from white clover, I'm not sure what sustains honey bees at this time of year. It is bumble bees I see exploiting the bounty of St John's wort and foxglove. A few years ago I bought a packet of wild flower seeds in a supermarket, and the foxgloves - or fairy thimbles as we called them as children - flowered for the first time this year among roses where I transplanted them. The tallest flowering stems have reached almost six feet, having produced a succession of blooms that have provided the bumble bees with pollen and nectar for weeks.