Honeys of Henley is the product of husband and wife team: Nigel & Jo Eddon - both based in Henley on Thames and both completely passionate about their bees.
It all started one day when Nigel was given the opportunity to take over a hive on the land of a Landscaping client. Always one for taking on a new challenge, Nigel researched and investigated what it would mean to truly be a traditional beekeeper and before too long, he was completely hooked. It didn't take much for his enthusiasm to rub off on Jo who has worked alongside Nigel, helping to choose how best to make this incredible honey into a product - something they could share with other people.
As time has passed, the team's considerable knowledge and passion has seen the business grow and thrive since those humble beginnings, but Nigel will always stick to the tried and true, tradtional methods. Happy bees - happy Beekeeper!
Honeys of Henley have now been selling their wares all around the Chilterns and are nearly always found at the local Food Fairs and Shows. Have a look at the events page for any future dates or if you just can't wait, you can find Honeys of Henley honey available from these stockists.
Is it the beauty of the flower,
Its honeyed sweets or fragrant power,
That first attracts the bee?
The blossom that our eye enchants,
He passes by for other plants,
Whose flowers we do not see.
I've seen the rose, delighted, glow,
And all its pow'rful essence throw
T' attract the wary thief;
But he pass'd on to whither grew
A flaunting poppy, gay of hue,
And lit upon its leaf.
A lily, queen of summer's shade,
With gems of purest pearl array'd,
In virgin lustre bright,
Bent low, and showed its cups were fill'd
With choicest sweets, from dews distill'd,
Alone for his delight.
But still the rambler came not near:
The rose's sigh, the lily's tear--
Were shed alike in vain;
Long hung he on a tulip's breast,
Enamour'd of its showy vest,
Ere he took flight again.
Then, as if wild with sportive bliss,
The fairest flow'rs he scarce would kiss,
Gay--wand'ring on the wing;
Or, swiftly sailing on the breeze,
From of the tops of nect'rine trees,
His honey'd stores would bring.
Away, away, at early morn,
A hunter keen, with sounding horn,
He'd seek th' sumptuous fare;
Off to the plains, and forest set,
And oh! how he would fume and fret,
If finding nothing there!
Sometimes I've seen him overhead,
As if by cloud, or sunbeam fed,
A denizen of air;
But in a moment down he'd come,
And I should hear his pleasant hum
about my gay parterre.
His sombre suit of dingy rust
Was powdered o'er with yellow dust;
His feet with travel stained;
His thighs were plated o'er with gold,
And scrip as full as it could hold
Of treasure he had gained.
No idle, vain, voluptuous life,
Nor one of useless toil and strife,
The busy creature led;
Active, loyal, clever, brave,
A patriot free, not crouching slave,
He earned his daily bread.
The insect seemed as much to love
The sunny plain as shady grove;
The weed, as fragrant flower;
The riches that the miner sought,
Were Nature's wealth, and instinct taught
Were found in field and bower.
Oh, wondrous ordinance of fate!
No fond emotions animate,
Nor can his breast inspire;
Unloving and unloved he lives,
And all he wins, and all he gives,
Are wages but of hire!