Last summer, I fancied trying my hand at beekeeping.
It wasn’t a random thought. Almost everyone I knew had a side hustle, and my previous one, captioning for online streaming platforms, had been made redundant by AI, so I was on the lookout for something new. But the idea first took hold when a swarm of bees unexpectedly took up residence in our wall.
When life gives you bees, sell honey, I’d thought, but I quickly abandoned the idea, much to my husband’s relief. That weekend I learned beekeeping isn’t a side hustle — it’s a full-time job.
The revelation began when my husband noticed a few bees buzzing around the air vent on our back wall. At first, we weren’t concerned. There are always a few bees about, but eventually the vent began attracting an unusual amount of attention.
“Put some incense sticks in there,” I suggested. Non-floral incense, we’d found, worked well to chase bees away. With seven squeamish daughters — most of them terrified of bees — incense had saved us many a drama.
Hubby ignored me, suspecting they’d already made a hive inside. This became a later point of contention.
I phoned a beekeeper, who didn’t come cheap. He advised us to keep an eye on things and send him videos so he could assess the situation. He’d come by on Monday if it got worse.
It got worse.
Sometime later, hubby went outside with his phone and returned shouting. He’s not squeamish, but bees swarming are a freakish sight.
“I looked up and I just saw black,” he said.
In his first attempt at filming, he got stung. Undeterred, he tried again from the side of the house and captured it: hundreds of bees swarming like they were having a housewarming party.
The sky had indeed turned black with bees.
We later learned from the beekeeper that the first bees hubby had seen were scouts. A little incense might have prevented the rest from following. Told him so!
That day, the house was abuzz — literally and figuratively. No bees made it inside, but their droning filled the air.
By Monday, the buzzing had stopped. I wondered if they’d moved on, but the beekeeper arrived, opened the vent and revealed a hive the size of a large hat with hundreds of silent bees busily buzzing about their business.
We’d caught them in time, he said. We were lucky. Removal only required taking off the vent.
My youngest and I watched through the window as the beekeeper scooped the hive out by the handful and placed it into a box, loosely covered with a sheet.
The trick, he explained, was catching the queen. Once she was out, the workers — high from the smoke he’d pumped inside — would follow quietly. Then he loaded the box into his car to take them away.
A few foragers might return, he said, but they’d either leave or die.
“Or just squirt them with Doom,” he added.
Hubby posted the swarm videos on his status, and friends immediately began requesting honey. I asked the beekeeper if we’d at least get any honey out of the ordeal.
He cheekily replied, “If you want, next year I can come back and sell you the honey from your wall.”
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