A moment that changed me: I tasted honey so sublime, I gave up my career to keep bees

I was first introduced to bees when I was invited to visit a neighbour’s apiary one April afternoon, 20 years ago. Like most people, I was terrified of stinging insects, but I was fond of the honey they produced, which I would drizzle into my tea to soothe a scratchy throat.

An invitation to meet honeybees was unusual. At the time, I was a freelance designer and illustrator, and spent my days working from my tiny red cottage in rural Connecticut. Occasionally, I took day trips into New York City to meet with clients and a few times each year travelled to China to oversee manufacturing of giftware for a small import company

The setting could not have been more seductive: an apiary resting in a fragrant field of wildflowers, the warm sun hugging my shoulders and the aroma of beeswax permeating the air. My neighbour smoked the entrance of the hive, then lifted the cover, revealing thousands of honeybees. He explained that the smoke calms the bees and it also makes them move, so we could inspect the hive. I stood at the opened hive, mesmerised at how hundreds of bees were going about their business and ignoring our presence.

As the bees began to buzz around our heads in a kind of calm chaos, he removed a frame of honey with his bare hands and told me stories about the activities inside the beehive. There was the queen bee, with her ability to lay thousands of eggs in a single day and live well beyond her children. The female workers, who performed every duty inside and outside the hive: caring for the young, producing beeswax, foraging for nectar, making honey. Last, the male drone bees, who do not have a stinger and never make honey but are necessary for mating until they die in the act. I had never imagined that the life of a honeybee could be so intriguing and dramatic, similar to a fairytale opera.

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