Before we left Washington, DC, my young son had one reaction when encountering a bee – an ear-splitting scream, very Fay Wray in delivery and decibel. But that was before, before, before we left the land of the disease-riddled Tiger mosquito and entered the virtual beehive known as England, where strawberries are succulent, flowers blossom in every raggedy garden and bees rule.

Doing what bees do best, at the Cambridge Botanical Garden

There was a time, just months ago,  when I’d consider the current visitation a “swarm.”  But in fact, these insects (bees, wasps and hoverflies, which masquerade as stinging pests), are so plentiful (in yards, parks, restaurants, even, dare I say it, buzzing in and out of my bedroom windows), that I’ve become desensitized. Cocktails in the garden with bees using my thighs as a landing strip? Sure! Bees in the loo? Come on in.

Some say this year’s crop is particularly intense (I recently saw some stoic Brits evacuate a charming outdoor tea garden as bees bombed their quaking trays of fresh scones.) There is a limit, I’m told.

But even my son now accepts the bugs as part of the landscape, warning “move on bee,” with a flick of his hand. My daughter gleefully squashes them with her tiny shoes. I expect less ennui after their first stings. But in truth, I’ll take the risk over a summer of perpetually itchy limbs and the toxic odor of Deet.

Or maybe it’s the crumpets smeared with English set honey that has me numbed into submission. Ask me after I get stung.