It had been ten days since the Azores anticyclone had given way to the African anticyclone. The days were hot, too hot. Nights were sleepless. We woke up to temperatures already at 30ºC (86ºF) and went to bed with over 35ºC (95ºF). In between, monotonous days with temperatures consistently above 40ºC (104ºF), sometimes reaching 45ºC (113ºF). Monotonous because, with that heat, you can’t do anything. There’s no evening relief, no moment of respite. Only, perhaps, the air conditioning. But I know that cools the inside and heats the outside.
On July 19, 2023, I was filming at the apiary. It was a coincidence. I was accompanying a crew to shoot some footage, and I had the camera with me. To avoid the heat, we left late, after 7 p.m. We hurriedly drove to the countryside, where there are vast expanses of eucalyptus trees. There, I thought, the heat should be more bearable. When we got out of the cars, I felt like opening the door of a convection oven. We joked about it. After all, "the sun will set soon, and it will get cooler," we thought. But there was something strange about those trees I’ve known my whole life, something I had never noticed before. Maybe because I wasn’t interested, or maybe because, in the summer heat, eucalyptus leaves are always shriveled, curled, and browned as if scorched, just like on that July 19, during the abnormal heatwave. Indeed, in this area of southern Sardinia, at the foot of Monte Arcosu and near the lagoon, such extreme temperatures had never been recorded before. That day, in the Campidano of Cagliari, temperatures reached up to 47.7ºC (117.9ºF).
In addition to the plants, the insects were also acting strangely. Flies, thousands of them, seemed to attack us. Small black flies, the kind you normally see near cows or horses. They were moving like crazy. There were so many that we had to get back in the car to move around. Inside, the car showed 58ºC (136.4ºF). "It can’t be!" I thought. The car was in the shade, in a forest—it couldn’t be that hot. Yet, the air was unbearable, dry, almost devoid of oxygen.
When we arrived near the apiary set up in the shade of a eucalyptus, I immediately noticed the bees buzzing around us. "These bees are always very aggressive; better put on the suit and mask before getting closer." Protected, I approached the apiary with the camera rolling. There was something strange. Honey and wax were dripping to the ground from inside the hive. The bees, as if dazed, were seeking shelter everywhere, moving frantically. They weren’t aggressive—quite the opposite. They were flying desperately in search of relief. Thousands lay dead on the ground, hopeless. The heat was killing them.
Later, I learned that the same thing had happened in other apiaries, the Cixerri plain, Sarrabus, and Parteolla. At the same time, photos emerged of vineyards with shriveled grapes and withered leaves still clinging to the vines.
This was only the first wave. On July 24, the few remaining bee colonies still alive died in apiaries hit by another heatwave. In some areas, it is estimated that over 25,000,000 bees perished.
Article published originally in Italia. Text, pictures, and video by Greca N. Meloni (2023).
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