Virgin honey

A swarm of bees in May is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon;
A swarm of bees in July isn't worth a fly.

Oh dear, three days ago the skies blackened above the head of the statue of the Virgin Mary on our roof. I thought Roujan had suddenly become Surrey on a Sunday morning with every lawn-mower buzzing busily. But no, a huge swarm of bees was circling looking for a place to make their hive. I fear they've settled on the crook of Madonna's arm. I'm no expert so I really have no idea. The vast majority disappeared, but there is still quite a number of bees buzzing around.

I asked M Descouens, the village bee man, what I should do. He looked horrified and said he couldn't go on our roof. His wife concurred. He must be about 85. I hoped he might be able to give advice from the safety of the ground, but the best he could come up with was 'call the pompiers'.

I haven't called them yet. What am I going to do with a load of hay?