WHEN Camilla Goddard first started to keep bees in London, it was difficult to find places awayfrom anxious neighbours or teenage vandals. Nine years later she has hives all over the city: inparks, churchyards, primary schools and on the roofs of hotels. She collects swarms frompeople's attics and sells honey at her local shop. A hobby has become a thriving business.
Apiculture is fashionable. Since 2008 membership of the British Beekeepers Association(BBKA) has almost doubled, to 24,000 people. Around 1,500 are in London. Courses in thecapital are always buzzing, says Angela Woods, an enthusiast. Despite the stereotype ofbeekeepers as luxuriantly bearded eccentrics, many newbies are young—women are particularlykeen.The boom was partly a by-product of worries about bees and awareness of the hugebenefits they bring. Colonies in many countries have been suffering mysterious suddencollapses since 2006. Urban eco-warriors found beekeeping an appealing practical outlet fortheir angst. Businesses, keen for green plaudits, also leapt on the trend. Fortnum &Mason, London's poshest department store, has hives on its roof (this newspaper, aneighbour, does not—yet).
Hives fit snugly in London gardens and bees seem to like city life. In the concrete junglepesticides are rare. Nectar surprisingly abounds, and not just in gardens: parks have waterliliesand other exotic plants. Brambles and wild flowers line railway tracks. Chestnut trees givehoney from Greenwich a heavy, nutty taste; bees that feed on rose bushes in Regent's Parkproduce an almost inedibly aromatic gloop.
London is not yet flowing with honey. Membership growth has slowed at the BBKA. The costof hives has risen. Green types are planting bee-friendly gardens instead of hosting apiaries oftheir own. And the harsh winter of 2012, which killed around a third of all the colonies inBritain, has put some beginners off. Busy Londoners want to connect with nature, says MsWoods. But without the sting of disappointment.