I’m an owl, not a lark. The alarm goes at 7.30am, and Terry Wogan gets me out of bed. I make some Gold Blend and sit at the computer. I’ve often got my coat on, sometimes even in bed, as the house is so cold — it dates back to 1642 and is 50 yards from one end to the other.

Donald doesn’t know how to boil a kettle. I can be packing orders or out driving the little tractor when this voice says: “I haven’t been fed yet.” I produce cereal, toast — none of it for me. Donald leaves for his steelworks and I make a flask of Gold Blend and stick a stew in the Rayburn. Jean, the treasure of my life, comes in three days to clean and iron. During the day I just have coffee and honey. It’s best straight off the frame.

Living in the country doesn’t mean you should look like a bumpkin. Some days I’ve only bees and hens for company, but you never know who’ll come through the door. Unless I’m Michelin Woman, in beekeeping gear, I wear a skirt, blouse, jacket and court shoes. I like good clothes — Hobbs, or Avoca, from Ireland. I put on foundation, eye shadow and red lipstick — Lancôme’s Rouge Glamorama. I walk seven or eight miles a day and ought to look like a starving Biafran, but I can’t get below 11 stone. I put it down to wine and a contented mind.

A couple of local blokes help out, plus my cousin at weekends. There are lots of jobs, such as lifting frames onto the trailer and lugging buckets of honey. We have barns full of stuff: honey-making equipment and our Medibee products. We also grow thousands of Christmas trees — our marriage between bees and trees was made in heaven.

Bees are the most fascinating creatures on the planet. They collect tree resins and gums to make propolis, which is the greatest antibacterial, antiviral, antifungal system in the world. They use it to plug every crack in the hive, but Florence Nightingale used it in the Crimea for its healing properties. I’ve been asked by a major airline to look into making a propolis mist to spray into the cabins. The beehive — a totally sterile environment — is nature’s pharmacy.

I pack the internet orders and drive them to the post office. My Mini has the number plate 8EES. It cost a fortune but I had to have it. I’m invited all over the country to talk about health and how bees can help. All my fees go to Sheffield Children’s Hospital Charity. It’s a happy place and it’s very special when the kids come here to learn about the bees.

In beekeeping, safety is paramount, but sometimes I fall foul of my own rules. The other day I was moving a swarm and hadn’t put gaffer tape round my gloves. I was stung on both wrists. My white cotton beekeeping suit goes over trousers and tops. The golden rule is not to drink, as it’s totally impractical for having a pee.

Each hive has 50,000 to 60,000 bees in it in summer, and when you open them the sound of buzzing is deafening. I’ve always wondered what the workers are saying to each other — being female, it has to be scandal. But being female, they multitask from morning till night. And still clean up after the men — the drones — the following morning!

Around 4, when Donald comes home, I start thinking about supper, and we sit down at 6. I have a glass of wine with whatever we’re eating. Then, in less than an hour, I’ll be back to work. I shoot vermin — magpies, rabbits, rats. The rats are shocking, and so are the foxes. I’ve killed four this year. The other day they slaughtered 30 chickens. I’d gone in to the chickens at 8am, and half an hour later every one was dead.

The honey has to be extracted straight from the wax honeycomb as “runny honey” — without ruining the honeycombs, so they can be put back for the bees to fill again. Boxes of the honeycombs are hauled from the hives and left in different parts of the field until nightfall, when the bees have gone back to the hives. With the bees in bed, all the unwaxed honeycombs are placed in a cylindrical spinner — nose-down. About 12 frames are spun at any one time. Honey is hurled onto the inner sides of the spinner and runs to the bottom exiting through a tap. The bees are humming until midnight and you don’t go near them until they’re safely home in their own hives. Each little home has its own personality.

It’s a great sadness that all the worker bees you see will only last six to eight weeks. They’re bringing in honey for their sisters in winter when they themselves will be dead. It’s food management for the next generations. If beehives can make sure there’s enough food for winter at no extra cost, surely this sodding government could put a food-production policy in place? As for the funding we’ve been allocated to research the varroa mite, which is killing off bee colonies everywhere, the UK is bottom of the pile. Spain gets 10 times more funding; Italy gets six times. Although I was brought up a socialist, Mrs Thatcher is my icon. I’ve got photographs of her all over the house.

I love socialising. We often go to events with beekeepers and tree-growers and I do dinner parties. Before bed I have a nice bath with honey soap, chat to Donald about the day and sort out the diary — I’m booked for engagements way into 2010. I have no trouble sleeping — last night I dreamt I was in America with Edwina Currie. Isn’t that stupid?

www.medibee.co.uk

Interview by Sue Fox. Portrait by Gareth Phillips

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