Memories of Bees 

Whenever I recall this story, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of joy. I remember being a small child. It was winter. I lay by the window in a warm room, watching large snowflakes fall from the sky. Nearby stood an ivy-covered tree, swarming with birds. I watched them and delighted in their presence.

The fire crackled in the fireplace, my mother was baking khachapuri, and my father was sharpening a saw. Suddenly, someone called out. Our neighbor, Tamazi Basilia, entered the house. I sensed that something was happening. He told my father, "Let's go before it gets too dark."

They left, taking an axe and a saw with them. When I asked my mother what was happening, she said, "They need to cut down a tree and bring back bees and honey." To me, this sounded like a fairy tale—I didn’t even know what a bee was.

That evening, they returned with plenty of honey, but, sadly, the bees had been eaten by a mouse. That was the first time I tasted honeycomb. From that moment on, I could hardly wait for spring to arrive so I could finally see the tiny creatures that created such delicious sweetness.

And then, spring came. The blooming cherry trees were alive with bees. One fine day, I took some glass jars and began catching them as they hovered over the flowers.

In the evening, when my father returned from work, he found my jars filled with captive bees. He asked me to release them in the morning. I did, hoping they would return—but in vain. Surely, they had found their way back to their own hives.

There was a large mulberry tree in our field. One day, I noticed a swarm of bees surrounding it. It was a natural swarm. A distinct buzzing sound filled the air but soon faded.

As I got closer, I saw that the bees had entered a hollow in the tree and immediately started working. They were carrying out tiny wood shavings and bringing in pollen and nectar. It was a mesmerizing sight—I couldn’t take my eyes off them. It gave me a strange sense of joy, so when I returned from school, almost every day, at about the same time, I would go and sit under that tree, resting there for hours.

This went on for about a month, and who knows how much longer it would have continued if I hadn’t overheard my neighbor, Osiko Chigogidze, calling out from above: "Come out, woman! Look at that boy—he’s standing there like a statue again!"

Embarrassed, I dropped to my knees and crawled out of the field.

The following year, we cut down that tree and transferred the bees into a hive. That’s how the first beehive appeared in our home.

Medicine has recognized the therapeutic properties of bees and their products. For a beekeeper, working in an apiary is the best form of relaxation. It relieves all stress, calms the nervous system—especially when things are going well. At the same time, the air infused with vapors from the honey-processing activity of bees provides unique health benefits.

My father suffered from rheumatism. I remember how much pain he endured. He had been everywhere, including balneological sanatoriums, but without success. When we acquired bees, naturally, he was stung while working with them. From that year on, he was completely cured of rheumatism. This intrigued me, and over time, I discovered many similar cases.

"Extracting honey and inspecting bee colonies are among the most important tasks in an apiary. One year, my neighbors offered to help me with the work. The sun was blazing, but the weather was calm—perfect for working. The bees were foraging well. I was working shirtless, pulling honeycombs from the hives.

Just then, my helpers arrived. One of them was dressed in a wool coat, rubber boots, a hat with ear flaps, gloves, sunglasses, and even had a scarf wrapped around his neck. The other was dressed normally and loudly declared, "I'm not afraid of bee stings!"

At that moment, an innocent bee, loaded with nectar, accidentally landed near his ear. He started waving his hands wildly, then bolted. Nearby was my cornfield—he tumbled headfirst across it, flattening an entire row from one end to the other.

I laughed heartily, but what was so funny? The corn was no longer standing."

It was summer, the weather was great, and I had opened nearly thirty beehives. The bees were calm, not stinging, and I wasn’t even using a smoker.

A little while later, the situation changed. The bees wouldn’t let me work anymore. I washed my hands and face, lit the smoker, changed my shirt, and opened a few other hives—but the problem remained. I had no choice but to stop working.

Not even half an hour had passed when dark clouds gathered in the sky, followed by a heavy downpour.

So that was the reason for the bees' agitation!

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Beekeeping is a challenging but fascinating field. Experience matters a lot, but no matter how old you are, you can learn something new or make a mistake every day. That’s exactly what happened to me recently.

I was working in the apiary, inspecting the bee colonies. The hive lid was open, and I had removed a frame covered with bees. Suddenly, my neighbor called me about something urgent. At first, I ignored him, but when he wouldn’t give up, I instinctively responded loudly. The sound irritated the bees—they swarmed out of the hive and gave me a proper "lesson" by stinging me repeatedly.

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It was August, around five past midnight, and it was still hot. It was very dark, with no moonlight. I was working in the apiary, collecting bee venom.

Suddenly, a distinct clicking sound echoed, repeating at intervals. I thought it was a snake, but I still approached the spot and shone my flashlight.

Beneath the hive, a large toad was lurking—snatching bees from the hive entrance, and at that moment, its tongue was producing a bizarre sound

It's well known that hunters are famous for boasting, but I didn't expect it from a beekeeper. One summer, my friends (I. Razmadze, V. Peliaminov, and others)—scientists (beekeepers) from Tbilisi—came to visit. We were conducting various experiments in my apiary. In the evening, a traditional Gurian feast took place. Of course, during such gatherings, some tell the truth, and others—lies.

One guest boasted, "I'm not afraid of working with bees. Moreover, I've even planned to publicly place a bee on my body."

At that moment, from somewhere under the table, a bee buzzed. Then it flew up, circled the table, rushed towards the lit lamp, broke away from there, and settled directly in that person's hair.

There was a stomping of feet, then waving of hands, followed by groans, and finally, the "Guinness" record seeker ran outside.

We laughed so much that evening, may God grant us more like it."

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Text is being prepared, work in progress ...

Text is being prepared, work in progress ...

Text is being prepared, work in progress ...

In my village, there is a forest strip to the east, known as the "Black Forest." It is probably called so because the century-old trees create a certain darkness within. This forest is rich in nectar-producing plants. Walking through it is a pleasure, as even in the scorching heat, the air remains cool, and the fragrance of the flowering plants, combined with the songs of various birds, is an unparalleled remedy for a good mood. One summer day, I was enjoying the beauty of this nature. I sat down on a tree stump to rest. Nearby, a cold mountain spring was bubbling. I plucked a cherry laurel leaf to use as a drinking cup, and then I noticed something remarkable: in the hollow of a dry beech tree, a colony of bees had settled and was working tirelessly. I sat there for a long time, mesmerized by the sight.

I imagined how humans had once transferred bees into artificial hives. That was when an idea struck me: wouldn’t it be possible to make an interesting documentary film about bees? I returned home, and that night, I couldn't sleep—I kept thinking about how this could be realized. Soon after, I wrote a script, traveled to Tbilisi, and shared my dream with well-known film directors—Leri Sikharulidze, Rezo Vardanishvili, and Guram Meskishvili.

We couldn’t find a similar film anywhere. I returned home satisfied, as I had earned the approval of specialists. I prepared all the necessary materials and logistics in advance, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the team and the start of filming. We chose the title: The Beekeeper and the Bees.

The film was to feature well-known Gurian songs and music. It would begin with wild beekeeping in the forest, followed by the transfer of bees from a tree hollow into an artificial hive, and then showcase various beekeeping procedures. The grand finale was envisioned as follows: during New Year’s celebrations in the city, a festive table would display bee products—gozinaki (a traditional honey and walnut snack), Honey beeswax vodka, and honey-based delicacies. There would be feasting, humor, and good songs. Then, suddenly, the scene would shift from the city to the countryside—a winter beekeeping landscape covered in deep snow. A beekeeper would be seen shoveling snow off the hives while continuing to hum the same song, blending the two worlds seamlessly.

A one-hour documentary film would have been both fascinating and visually appealing, but the events of the 1990s in Georgia left this dream unfulfilled.