As a child, I was allergic to bees. Just one sting on my fingertip could swell my whole arm. I was allergic to most things – dust, cat hair, pollen – and was always clutching an inhaler, sniffling into my sleeve and keeping a safe distance from stinging insects.
As an adult, when my family bought our first house, a mid-century gem nestled in thick bushland on Sydney’s northern beaches, I wasn’t expecting a visit from my former nemesis. But one warm spring day, we heard the unmistakable hum of 20,000 of those honey-producing insects.
