There is that time when the predominant colour for the early flowers seems to be a delicate blue, and I bet these flowers are amongst the most successful when it comes to pollination - bees and hover-flies seem to be extremely attracted to that particular shade of blue, which is why bee-keepers always wear white if they know what's good for them.
We are coming up to my 61st blue period, and I can't wait. I don't want to see the world through a bee's eyes, though. We think that summer slows things down to a lazy pace - the tempo of breath during a dog-day nap - 'summertime, and the living is easy...' Not for bees it ain't.
Seeing the world through a bee's eyes - the frantic search down long avenues of polarised light. The checking, checking, checking, to see who's been here first. A microscopic drop from each ultra-violet - ultra-violent - target area, then pay-back time and up and away, laden with pollen to the next objective.
Back at headquarters for a debrief - direction to, distance from, and abundance of the best source - all imparted in a solo line-dance before off-loading, cell by cell surrounding the fat queen - I've been wracking my brains trying to remember an amusing anecdote about this dance (and it doesn't involve Welsh smallholders). If it comes to me, I'll insert it later. Oh, I've just remembered it: They have discovered that even bees exaggerate by telling fibs about how large the food source is, how close it is to the hive and generally what jolly clever bees they are for finding it.
All this and the manufacture of fine wax too. How do bees make wax? In their ears, silly.
Almost every year, I find a bee which has utterly exhausted itself, and it crawls around too weak to fly, seemingly at death's door. If I am able, I mix some honey with water, put it in a teaspoon and coax the stricken bee's coiled snout into the mix. It sucks away, then after a short while seems to stop and think about things for a while, then - without warning - takes off into the air to continue working for the greater good, and I watch it fade into the distant summer sky with an intense feeling of satisfaction for a job well done.
I may make a honey-soaked bee-feeder (like people make humming-bird feeders in the countries where humming-birds fly) this year, then attach it to the back wall of our compact but adorable city apartment.