SNATCHES of overheard conversations in busy places are always fascinating and recently in Northallerton High Street one Saturday afternoon, I heard a woman say to another: "Yes, you must do that, go tell it to the bees."

This was probably a relic of a custom which was practised in modern times, certainly within the last 25 years or so and perhaps more recently.

The practice was widespread in rural areas and was based on the belief that one's hive of bees must be told about all the major events within their keeper's family.

The most important duty, of course, was to ensure the bees were told of the death of their keeper.

If this was not done, it was believed the bees would leave the hive and go elsewhere.

The responsibility for telling the bees rested upon either the keeper's widow or his eldest child and they had to approach the hive or hives, strike each one three times with an iron key and announce: "The master is dead."

If this was not done then either the bees would fly away for ever, or they might even die. If this happened, then some other misfortune was also likely.

Having told the bees, the hives were then draped with black crepe to indicate they were in a period of mourning, but I have no indication how long the crepe was left there. In Victorian times, the period of mourning lasted an entire year.

In some places, when the funeral cortege or perhaps the body was leaving the house, the hives were turned around to face the opposite direction or moved temporarily to another location. Afterwards the bees were rewarded with items from the funeral tea, such as sugar or biscuits soaked in wine.

In one Yorkshire case, the widow of the deceased beekeeper made sure the bees were given a small piece of everything owned by him. This included his clay pipes, which were ground into powder and mixed with his tobacco.

In her words, the bees ate every piece. "Bacca, pipes an' all, Ah seed it for mysen," she said.

In addition to informing the bees of a death in the family, it was also important they were told about other major events such as weddings and births, or indeed any other kind of success or even a serious sadness, perhaps the loss of a faithful dog or theft of a precious belonging.

It seems this custom was also practised with rooks. If there was a rookery on anyone's land and the landowner died, the new owner would stand beneath the trees and tell the birds about the death.

In addition, he would promise that only he and his invited friends would be allowed to shoot the birds! It was believed that if a new landowner failed to undertake this task, then the birds would vacate that rookery.

That was considered a bad omen because it was thought that if rooks left a rookery, it was a sign that the land would be lost or the family would dissolve into poverty.

I believe this custom was also practised with other pets and even cage birds or plants! I've heard of caged birds being told of their owner's death, with the cage then being draped in black for the period of mourning, and in some instances favourite plants were even told, with black flags being placed in the ground at their side.

It is difficult to know how or why this custom began, although it might have links with a very ancient belief that the human soul took the form of a bee soon after death, although in some areas it was thought the soul became a butterfly.

This link between bees and human death goes a little further because it was also thought that if bees deserted a hive for no apparent reason, it heralded the death of their keeper.

If they swarmed in the dead wood of a tree, for example, this was also a warning of the impending death of their keeper - or indeed the sign of approaching death for the person who witnessed the event! There is a story of a man and wife out walking. She noticed some bees swarming on dead wood and immediately told her husband she would soon die. And so she did, with her husband saying he'd expected her death from the moment she witnessed that event.

So far as swarming bees are concerned, I have come across a curious belief that if one's bees swarmed and settled on someone else's land, the keeper could enter that other person's land to retrieve them and never be accused of trespass. Go tell that to the bees!

This morning's walk was rewarded by the sight of two partridges in a field adjoining the lane.

They were close to the area where I had spotted a single bird about a month earlier, although these were in a different field some yards away at the other side of the lane.

By this stage, the grass had been cut, dried and led and the birds were exploring the rather lawn-like close-cropped area, albeit remaining close to the undergrowth beneath the hawthorn hedge in case they needed shelter.

These were so-called French or red-legged partridges. They still bear the name French despite being resident in this country since about 1790.

More than 100 years earlier, in 1673, attempts had been made to introduce these birds to our countryside, but they were not successful.

In the 1790 experiment, however, eggs imported from France were used to rear thousands of red-legged partridges and, in later centuries, more birds were introduced. In some areas, they outnumber our native grey partridge.

Their distinguishing features include bright red legs and a red beak, with a white face and chin handsomely marked with black. There is a black eye-stripe and flecks of black on the breast.

When in flight - not a very common event - red feathers can be seen at each side of the tail, but in general the upper parts are a soft brownish-grey, although there are bold black and grey markings on the flanks.

Despite this bird's bright colouring, it can easily merge with the background. But if it is disturbed, it tends to run for shelter rather than fly.

I have seen French partridges at this location several times in recent years, although I have yet to spot any chicks. The female is remarkable because she lays two clutches of eggs in different nests, each comprising anywhere between a dozen and 20 eggs.

One clutch is incubated by her, while the other is the responsibility of her mate. The nests are on the ground and are thinly lined with dry grass, but the bird does have the sense to conceal them beneath overhanging vegetation such as briars or in deep grass.

Although the French partridge can outnumber our own grey in some areas, it is not so widespread as the grey. The French partridge has tended to favour the south-eastern half of the British Isles and I believe it is most numerous in the East Anglian counties. The further north or west one goes, the less likelihood there is of seeing one.

The modern Wensley is such a small and pretty village, with a wonderful old parish church dating to long before the Reformation, that it is difficult to realise it was once a thriving market town.

Indeed, it has given its name to Wensleydale, considered by many to be the finest of all the Yorkshire Dales - even if it was once called either Yoredale or Uredale.

Wensley's demise began in 1563 when a dreadful plague struck the town. Many of its residents died, while others fled from the district, and it seems Wensley never recovered from this devastation.

Even the trade in its renowned market fell away. For something like 100 years this was the only market in Wensleydale, having been established by charter in 1202, but the effect of the plague was such that Wensley lost its place as the main market town and capital of the dale which still bears its name.

Precisely when Wensleydale was known as Uredale or Yoredale is a matter for speculation. In some monastic charters it was called Yoredale, but the term Wensleydale was known to be in use during the twelfth century.

Or is there a boundary? Some suggest that Kilgram Bridge near Jervaulx still marks the boundary between Yoredale and Wensleydale