I just found this lovely story at Singing Over the Bones The journal of writer, story-weaver and psychologist Sharon Blackie
Once upon a time, there was a woman who lived in a small cottage by a river, in the hills of Donegal. One night, several years before she moved there, she’d dreamt that she was walking through an enormous beehive, watching the nursery bees carefully tend to the pupae. Wandering the strange vaulted halls of this golden bee-cathedral, she came face-to-face with the queen, and (much to her relief) she promptly woke up. Soon after, she became a beekeeper. She and her husband tended their bees lovingly in two vastly different places: a fertile croft on the shores of a sea-loch in the north-west Highlands of Scotland, then a wilder bog-bound croft on the far edge of the world, as far west as it was possible to go in the salt-swept, gale-ridden Outer Hebrides. One poor winter when the wildflowers were late to bloom, her husband kept the hive alive by laying at its feet armfuls of prickly flowering gorse which he’d brought home from the island’s only town.
See more at The Blackthorn Beeing