The first day of summer for six-year-old Oliver began with restless anticipation. Grandad William had decided to take him to the apiary for the entire seasona place hed heard so much about from his father! His mother had hesitated at first but eventually agreed, though not for the whole summer, only until August. Then she and his father would come to fetch him from the remote countryside of Dartmoorit was time to prepare for school. This year, hed be starting Year One!
Grandad William arrived in his old Rover that morning, bringing woodland treats, but Oliver barely glanced at them. He fidgeted beside his grandfather, tugging at his shirtsleeve every few minutes, eager to set offcertain that if they delayed, his mother might change her mind. Understanding the boys impatience, Grandad chuckled and ruffled his hair.
“Dont fret, Ollie, its settled! Best eat your breakfastwell have lunch at the apiary!”
At last, the bags were loaded, and they set off. For the first time, Oliver was without his parents watchful eyes. But Grandad wasnt just any guardianhe was a friend. Never one for lectures or scolding, he spoke to Oliver as an equal, discussing everything under the sun with patience, never looking down on him. How could he? They were two serious fellows talking about serious mattersno room for silliness.
Oliver dozed off embarrassingly soon into the journey. He woke only when the car jolted onto a bumpy track, leaving the main road behind. Outside the window, birch groves swept past, so close he could almost touch them. And the scent! Nothing like the city. Fields stretched out, dotted with bluebells, buttercups, and daisies, swaying gently as if the earth itself were breathing. It looked like a rippling sea, and Oliver fancied they were sailing it in a little boat.
“Are we nearly there, Grandad?” Oliver nudged his shoulder, pretending he hadnt been asleep at alljust lost in thought.
“Nearly. Just beyond that copse is the apiary. I reckon old George is waiting. And Willow with her kitten too.”
“Willowthats the kittens mum?” Oliver guessed. “Will she let me play with him?”
“If you treat her with respect and her little one with love, of course. But if youre too rough, youll both get a swipeshes a strict mother, not like yours.”
“Me? Scolded by a cat?” Oliver scoffed. No cat had ever dared lay a claw on him before.
“Not just any cat. Youve never met one like Willow. Just dont stare her down too long,” Grandad warned. “Shes kind, but shes still a wild thing, and that kittens her world.”
At last, they arrived. Oliver spotted two timber cabinsone larger, one small. From the open door of the smaller one, drawn by the sound of the Rover, emerged a lynx!
Oliver froze, but when he saw her rub against Grandads legs, his fear melted.
“Now thats a cat!” he gasped. Willow approached, sniffing him. At his awed tone, she blinked at him and brushed against his legs. When he crouched, she nudged his face with her damp nose, making him burst into laughter.
“Consider yourselves introduced,” Grandad smiled. “Now youre one of hers.”
Olivers head swiveled, amazed by the striped bees darting aboutnothing like the citys tiny ones. One even landed on his cheek. Then disaster struck. Missing Grandads warning, he swatted it. Pain seared through his face, worse than any injection! Hissing through his teeth, he barely kept his footing. Grandad was beside him in an instant, plucking out the sting.
“Turned out youre quite the tough lad!” he said, clapping Olivers shoulder. “Not a whimper! That was a honeybee. They only sting if theyre in mortal danger.”
A bearded man with twinkling eyes shook Olivers hand. “Pleased to meet you. Im Grandad George, and you must be young Ollie?”
“Thats me,” Oliver nodded. “Im staying with you now.”
“Welcome aboard!” George grinned.
“Grandad George, theres a bee on your forehead,” Oliver warned.
George gently lifted it, whispered something, and set it free. It circled once before vanishing. Astonishing!
By weeks end, Oliver had explored the land, learned to handle bees, andmost importantlybefriended Willows kitten, whom he named Pippin. When not helping the men, he spent every moment with his stubby-tailed companion. Willow watched their antics with a grumble but never interfered. Pippin, nearly three months old, was already half her size. They raced, played tag, and hid in the woodsthough Oliver never stood a chance. Wherever he hid, Pippin found him in moments. But when Oliver cried, “I give up! Pippin, where are you?” the kitten would leap down from a nearby tree.
The men fascinated him too. When the bee stung him, no one coddled himjust a pat on the back and a “Happens to the best of us.” All day he nursed his swollen cheek, and they acted as if it were nothing. It made him feel grown. He even considered another sting for symmetry but thought better of it. Back home, his mother wouldve fussed with compresseshere, life went on.
He rose early, washing in icy water that left him buzzing. He fished with the men, catching perch himself, then learned to gut and scale themeven given his own belt knife for the woods.
One day, Grandad George carried in a fawn with a broken leg. While the men set the bone, Oliver soothed it, naming it Bramble. They built a pen, and though Willow and Pippin eyed the newcomer, a word from George kept them away. A month later, Bramble limped no more.
“His mothers nearby,” George said. “Shell claim him soon.”
Sure enough, one morning Bramble bolted at her call, never returning.
Grandad William took Oliver foragingwild strawberries, cherries, mushrooms. They filled baskets, then preserved them for winter. Once, Oliver saw Grandad speaking to a large dog. It listened intently, offered its paw, then vanished into the trees.
“Your dog?” Oliver asked.
“Wolf,” Grandad corrected. “We freed him from a trap once. Now he keeps an eye on us in the woods.”
“Why doesnt he stay?”
“A wolfs wild. You can befriend them, but never tame them.”
Oliver frowned. Hed hoped to take Pippin home.
One morning, neither Pippin nor Willow were in their usual spot. Grandad George set down his tools at Olivers crestfallen look.
“Lost Pippin? Thats how itll be now. Willows teaching him to hunt, find shelterto live wild. By snowfall, theyll be gone. Hell thrive.”
As days passed, their visits grew rare. Though they still accepted affection, they grew distant, often vanishing for days.
In early August, Olivers parents arrived. His mother gaspedher “little boy” was taller, tanner, quieter. Hed begun mirroring the men, even fussing over her. For a week, she basked in the care of four devoted males.
Oliver watched in awe as Willowwhod known his father before he was bornrubbed against him, purring wildly. When she pressed her ear to his mothers belly, then met her eyes knowingly, his mother flushed.
“You guessed, didnt you, Willow?”
“Willow doesnt guess,” his father smiled. “She knows.”
On their last day, Oliver called for Pippin in vain. Heart heavy, he fought tears as they said their goodbyes. Only when the car turned onto the main road did he glance backand spotted two golden shapes racing alongside.
“Dad, stop!”
The Rover halted. Pippin and Willow bounded over. Oliver fell to his knees as Pippin planted his paws on his shoulders, nuzzling his face. Willow licked his hand.
“You didnt forget me!” Oliver whispered, tears unchecked.
The farewell stretched. Even his parents petted the pair, laughing through their own tears. Then Willow yowled, and Pippin reluctantly followed. At the treeline, they paused, winked their golden eyes, and vanished.
As the car rolled on, Oliver spoke firmly:
“Dad, I need to come back next summer.”
“Of course, son. Youve more to learn from your grandads yet.”
