Traveling, WWOOFing and Beekeeping in France
S’Activer Comme un Abeille
by Kristina Goetz of Jackson, WY
My eyes have barely opened, and already I’m excited. I think it’s morning, but it’s too dark to tell. Worming out from under the leaden duvet, I stumble across the room and creak open the heavy wooden shutters. It IS morning, and outside, the French countryside beckons! I scurry down the old worn staircase – really just the kitties’ three story scratching post – and fix myself some breakfast. My host comes traipsing in – having usually been up for hours by now – and outlines the day’s projects and plans. First we are heading to the honey house, then a quick stop at the hives. Could I stick around this afternoon to keep an eye on the honey stand? She has to run into town. I am more than willing to help her as much as she needs. Whatever I do here, I am learning a ton. And not just about beekeeping – French driving etiquette, local culture, and of course, the language, are all subjects for study. Fed and housed in a castle, no less! Was I dreaming?
In early 2001, after a year of scrimping and saving, I set out for Europe for three months. I had a variety of reasons for going, one of which was WWOOF – something I had learned about in the US, but had yet to experience, or meet anyone who had. WWOOF – Willing Workers on Organic Farms – is a way too well-kept secret here in the US. Now an international program, it began in 1972, in England. Then called Weekend Workers on Organic Farms, it gave people the chance to learn about organic growing by doing it, in exchange for room and board. The originators – BioDynamic Emerson College Farm in Sussex – found the program to be so successful they formed an organization to help others do the same thing. Hence, the birth of this gem of a program. It soon spread around the world, and morphed into Willing Workers (on Organic Farms) when it became clear weekends were just not enough! Today, it is quite an entity: 66 countries participate, with some of those having hundreds of hosts. Mostly hosts are small organic outfits, and the basis of WWOOFing remains the same: working in exchange for keep. Individual host requirements vary in terms of length of stay or hours per day. Some prefer you to write ahead; many encourage you to just call or email if you are nearby and interested.
So, after six weeks of rather intense travel, March found me on the phone, ringing my top few choices, and attempting to convey in my rather rudimentary French that I was interested in WWOOFing. (Many hosts speak several languages, which is noted on the listing by their terms.) I chose France because of their continued respect for farming and preservation of local culture. Of course, that lovely language might have had something to do with it too. Plus, WWOOFing is huge in France; 275 hosts to date and growing! (It is also notably popular in New Zealand and Australia.) Being March, there were not many takers – the season was hardly beginning – though I have since heard it can be a little tricky in the height of summer as well, with all the WWOOFers around! But after a few days of making some calls and emails (which is even easier to access in Europe than in the US), I was heading to the foothills of the Pyrenees – the mountains that lie on the French-Spanish border – to assist an apiculteur (beekeeper)!
We arranged to meet at the train station (even if you aren’t sure how to meet, the host usually has experience and can offer suggestions) and she picked me up in the “Rattletrap,” the little Peugeot pickup she drove like a banshee around the country roads, and took me to my new ‘home.’ Imagine my surprise when we pulled up a muddy lane and before me was an ancient castle, sitting on a hill on the outskirts of a teeny, slate-roofed village. “Here we are!” she announced, far too unceremoniously, slammed the door and started gathering my bags. My mouth was still hanging open.
The castle, subject of legend and myth, was built in the 13th century. Her stone farmhouse was actually built into the wall surrounding the “chateau.” Tourists came often to see the castle, and my host – a remarkable and clever woman with whom I felt an immediate affinity – had her honey stand right there in the yard. One of my first experiences as a WWOOFer was collecting money – or trying to, anyway – for a jar of miel (honey) from a family of German visitors, both in our VERY non-native languages. With all the laughing, it probably took half an hour. But I did eventually get used to manning the stand. A little bell hung by the door of the house, to be rung by interested customers. Upon hearing it ring, I ran to the door. Let the sign language begin! My host further amused herself by having me go to the market with her on Saturdays, a delightful, openair, rain or shine event common to the towns of France and all of Europe. After we set up her booth – she sold honey, bee pollen, propolis, beeswax candles, royal jelly, and pain d’epices (spiced bread), she would leave me to fend for myself as she made her socializing rounds and loaded up on fresh veggies, eggs, and cheese. Whenever someone wanted more than two or three jars of honey, I had my trusty piece of paper to assist with my fumbling. Numbers over 15 were tough! I can only imagine the impatience with which Americans would greet this, but the French never seemed to mind. If I had to explain the difference between any of her 12 delicious varieties of honey, though, I had to enlist help. Lucky for me, not only did my host speak English, but the particular region I found myself in, in Southeast France, was an area that had in the 60s been settled by a lot of ‘back-to-the-land-ers’; a movement similar to that in the US. Many of these settlers were British. And so, here I could practice my French without insulting too many people, because they could always ask me politely in English if I really meant what I had just said. (“You do not really think I look like I was spawning, do you?”) Thank goodness! Besides the British, the region was filled with walking paths, hot springs, and ruins of the Cathars (an ancient people who settled, prospered, then mysteriously disappeared, also the subject of much speculation), so there was never a shortage of things to do outside of “working.”
But the work was fascinating, and one of my main reasons for being there. I suspect my host may have been somewhat of an anomaly; she was unbelievably welcoming of my questions and “help” at all times. Unlike many hosts, she did not establish a set amount of work time; instead she let WWOOFers work as little or as much as they liked and figured it would all even out in the end. I had worked a bit with bees in the US and was dying to know more. Of course March is hardly the honey harvest season, but there was plenty to do. Together we cleaned and disinfected scores of hive boxes, frames, and supers at the miellerie (honey house) – also home to her fantastically huge sparkling stainless steel extractor – and sped about in the Rattletrap, visiting her 80 ruches (hives) often. It was a particularly cold, wet, and windy spring – bad bee weather – and with the lack of miellee (nectar flow), some of the hives were struggling.
Despite our attempts to keep the hives warmer by insulating parts of the trou de vol (hive entryways), we ended up delivering back quite a bit of thinned honey (syrup) to the bees, pouring it into hollow frames called ‘partition de nourrir’ (division board feeder) for the hungry girls. This turned out to be a two person job because we would take a peek at the couvain (brood) and honey stores to determine the state of the hive; clean it up a bit; and switch out the thyme-soaked patches she used for battling acarien (mites) – all as quickly as possible so the hive didn’t lose much heat. Did I mention there’s a smoker in there somewhere too? We got our routine down soon enough. Of course, haste does occasionally make waste, but what’s a gallon of syrup in your shoe, or getting your hand smashed by an over-eager hive coverer? In our frequent hive checkups and feedings, she ceaselessly pointed things out to me, like spotting weak hives and ‘smelling’ disease. A few hives had loque (foulbrood) or teigne (wax moth). Sometimes we had to look for a reine (queen) – talk about a needle in a haystack! – and although my host revealed all the tricks of that trade, it was NEVER me who found the queen. Troublesome also was spotting very young eggs – useful in determining if the queen is alive, well, and laying – which were but mere specks in the bottom of the combs, barely visible to my naked eye, and only if the light was good. It proved to be not quite as impossible as queen-finding, and eventually I got the hang of it. I also learned to use the leve-cadre (hive tool) for opening hives, scraping wax and propolis, and prying frames apart; and the brosse d’abielles (bee brush), for getting the bees off the comb. I was thoroughly impressed upon seeing a queen cell for the first time, as well as by the ingenuity of pollen traps (used to collect pollen from the baskets of incoming bees) and grille a reine (queen excluder), which restricts movement of queens and drones to a specific part of the hive. The only catch was – I learned it all in French! But no matter the language, it was endlessly interesting. Never knowing what would be discovered in the next hive, I anticipated each one with excitement.
I also had the good fortune to be there when the new queens my host had ordered arrived! First, the postmaster called: “Madame, there are some…bees…here, …can you come fetch them…right away??” They came in a small package, each queen in her own tiny cage, a little wooden rectangular box with a screen stapled over the open face. One end had a corked hole; the other end’s hole was filled with sugar candy. The queen, accompanied by a few worker bees, was marked with a white dot (Aha!). The idea behind the cages is that a hive, unused to the scent of a queen not raised there, may kill her before they adjust to her presence. So you stick the cage and all in a queenless hive and the old bees get used to her over the course of a few days – which is about the amount of time it takes for the new bees and queen to eat their way out and the old bees to eat their way in through the candy cork. The cage protects her from being killed in the meantime. Brilliant, no?
The weather unfortunately was not cooperating when the bees showed up. So they kept us company, or we them, in the warm and cozy kitchen for a few days. We could hear them buzzing away and could not resist the occasional peek. My host was eager to get them in the hives, but the weather was still lousy. Finally we couldn’t wait any longer, and commenced the operation. And what an operation it was! Neither of us had ever done this before (she had had a beekeeping partner who had since left) and so were not exactly visions of competency. Exciting, yes, exhausting, even more so, but we managed to divide and reorganize and get all the queens in the right hives. I later heard that it was even somewhat of a success.
My crowning achievement was not the queen introductions, however; after a long period of struggle and frustration, I did, in fact, become Le Enfumoir Extraordinaire – the Smoker Extraordinaire!! Although fussy and finicky, smokers are essential. In this area, beekeepers burned juniper: it smoldered well and there was a lot of it around. Apparently a wide array of things can be used. Smoker duty was passed on to me because my host had better things to do than battle a dying flame. Of course the pressure was on, because the smoke, among other things, distracts and calms the bees, and if you are poking your nose in a hive, this proves very useful. Even if your bees are mellow and agreeable – which hers were – a smoker is kept on hand. Once I mastered the little metal devil, I was always a welcome addition to the hive visits. My secret weapon? A little paper and some dried grass. Soon I never left home without them.
In the evenings, there was still work to do. She had me making new frames, stringing then, and placing feuille de cire gaufree (comb foundation) between the wire and melting it carefully to attach it. Some nights I rolled candles from the sheets. She got these from the wax coop, a depository for wax from local hives, who melted it down, pressed it to form, and returned it to beekeepers accordingly.
She also hosted lots of WWOOFers who didn’t want, or didn’t have the personality, to work with bees. She really enjoyed hosting and found it to be, for the most part, beneficial to all involved. So she tried not to turn anyone away (although that is perfectly within the rights of WWOOF hosts). Three more WWOOFers – an English girl who was re-visiting, and a Canadian couple – showed up in just the few weeks I was there, and she did all she could to accommodate and dig up work for all. She even hosted someone who would never have done such a thing himself: my boyfriend – whose mouth hung open even longer than mine upon seeing the place, even though I TOLD him all about it – came for a visit and joined right in. Cleaning up the garden beds, helping her on errands and around the house, cooking, and slaving on the eternal dry stone wall project were other typical tasks.
Of course, it was hardly all work: this WAS France! The kettle sat perpetually warming on the wood cookstove. We always took time out for a tasty bite of lunch: my first fresh artichoke, slathered in butter, was courtesy of this wonderful woman and her garden. Friends of hers were always stopping in to chat, and with the never ending stream of WWOOFers, it was quite a sociable place. Every day, in the late afternoon, I had time for a long walk along the miles of paths in the surrounding hills and woods, always keeping an eye out for the elusive sanglier (wild boar), although I never did spot one. While dinner cooked (we took turns), I could cruise around the charming village on her rickety bike (many hosts provide these for WWOOFers) or play her piano, which we were welcome to do to our hearts content. We played Scrabble and swapped stories. I usually fell asleep with a book from her tremendous collection. I never did find time to write a letter. Sometimes she let me borrow the Rattletrap, to bomb down to the bigger town a few miles away (bombing is the only permissible way to drive in France) or to go snoop around some of the local Cathar ruins. My boyfriend knew he’d have a hard time getting me out of there – we had plans to trek across the Pyrenees – but, as it turned out, he was sad to go, too. Every experience in a program as diverse as this one is sure to be different, but two years later, I still think back to my time at the chateau and how wonderfully engaging it was. Next summer, I hope to get back for a while – and not just to the beekeeper! I have my eye on a dairy in Normandy, as well as a vineyard in central France. (I keep looking for a horse-powered host, too, but they are few and far between.) Maybe I will get a glimpse of the sanglier after all.
So, are you ready to sign up yet? Here’s how! Your best bet is to get on the Internet, either at home or at your local library and go to the WWOOF International website: www.wwoof.org. You would also contact them by mail at WWOOF, PO Box 2675, Lewes BN7 1RB England, UK. Now called Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms, they are currently the distributor of listings for 44 countries. If they don’t have the listings for the country of your choice, they have contact information for nationally run organizations in 22 other countries. Let your imagination go wild: there is even a listing or two for Cambodia, Iceland, and Uganda. The site also lets you preview farm listings, gives tips on contacting hosts by letter and phone, and advises on international travel in general. Next, you contact the organization, pay a membership fee ($20-30 usually) to join, and wait for the listings and ID card to arrive in the mail. After poring over your choices and probably salivating extensively, book your flight and go! If you don’t feel comfortable winging it in a foreign country, you can certainly contact hosts ahead of time. (For those still too anxious, there are many hosts in the US and Canada.) Be sure to read all the info you get, though! You will have to send an IRC (International Reply Coupon) or two so that hosts can write you back overseas. And don’t forget – you often don’t have to speak the language! (Although it sure is fun to try.) Some hosts welcome couples and children; a few offer the possibility of earning a little money. (Not that you need much anyway; WWOOFing is an incredibly inexpensive way to travel.) And there are no age limitations, either. There are young and not as young WWOOFers. At the castle, there were two of us in our 20s, one in their 40s, two in their 50s, and the host was over 60! There are as many types of opportunities as there are people, and there is SURELY a place suitable for everyone. I cannot recommend this program enough! For farmers to be, it is a great way to collect practical farming experience and see firsthand which types you like best. Even if you just have a passing interest in the rural life, it is an interesting and relaxing way to see another country and meet its people. For folks already farming, it is a glimpse into how others are doing it, and a chance to meet fellow agriculteurs. And even if you have no interest in farming, you may find WWOOFing so unusual as to be irresistible. As my boyfriend says, “It’s not every day you get to live in a turret.” So what are you waiting for? Whether you’ve a week, a month, or a year – get WWOOFing!!
