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It was one of those sunny Sunday afternoons, the kind where you could’ve easily have just sat down … and watched the sky change colour. On this particular Sunday afternoon however, we felt obliged, as a beekeeping family, to make an inspection on the wee darlings. Most of the year they tend to themselves, but to keep a healthy hive happy, it’s necessary to exchange pleasantries with the girls every month or so.

Fair enough too, I know I would catch a sight of cabin fever were I cooped up with my thousands of sisters and my mother, with no personal space whatsoever.

My job is to prepare the smoker for the inspection, for which, after years of experience, I have gained quite a knack.

There’s a fine art preparing a good smoker; too weak a flame and the smoke lasts two minutes before you have to retreat to rekindle the flames. Too strong a flame and you scorch the bees themselves, which is far worse than no smoke at all.

So, in no time at all, I had a good, thick cloud spouting from the nozzle, like a genie from the lamp. This was the best kind of smoke to work with, the kind that clings to the air itself, that catches in your teeth and your throat and makes your eyes blush and water.

Then we were prying apart the boxes and frames, cleaning off the gunk, the rogue wax, the spilled nectar, the dismembered parts of bees, squashed and forgotten amongst the hubbub, the waxen crypt and cradle.

At all times, hundreds of bees are flying in the air about your head, groggy and disoriented from the smoke.

Every now and then you’ll get one that’s missed out on the smoke entirely, and it doesn’t matter how thick the gloves you are wearing, what manner of face mask, she’ll come at you, again and again and again with intent to kill, all for the sake of protecting the hive.

This is the point at which you start to get afraid, never mind the docile, sleepy things bouncing off your hat because now you are standing face to face with a warrior, unafraid of death, charging on despite unperceivable odds, and you know this is the one that deserves your respect because the very second you drop your guard, she will not hesitate to kill you.

So we fit the thing back together, tidy up after ourselves and get ready to scoot - the last thing you want to do is outstay your welcome on a visit to the girls.

And all this time, our old silver tabby, Mackerel, is watching us ever-so-closely with his green, green eyes. Prancing back and forth, he oversees the proceedings as if he knows all the tricks of the trade, but if we made any mistakes he was gracious enough to keep them to himself.

Oblivious to the mass of winged insect looming like a dark cloud above his head, he walks over under the lemon tree, sits himself down, and, I swear to it, nods his approval.

Man, I tell you, if that cat weren’t a cat, he’d be something else.

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