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For the most part, Les Simonffy has led a law-abiding life. Except for the two years when the Hamilton, Ont., office worker morphed into a small-time criminal during his lunch breaks.

To keep his secret, Mr. Simonffy bribed secretaries using the proceeds of his crime. Instead of taking the stairs, he hauled the tools of his illicit trade up an empty elevator shaft, using rope. Even his boss joined the conspiracy, promising not to alert authorities.

Mr. Simonffy liked to dine on his office rooftop with about 120,000 outlaw honeybees.

"I just wanted to know if they could collect honey downtown in an industrial section of Hamilton," says Mr. Simonffy, 70, who took apart his two highly productive hives seven years ago when the four-storey climbs became too difficult for him.

Ontario's Bees Act states: "No person shall leave hives containing bees within 30 metres of a property line," ruling out beekeeping in most residential lots.

Laws vary between municipalities across the rest of the country, but most cities limit the number of hives or ban urban beekeeping, generally out of concerns over health, safety and agricultural management.

Yet in backyards, on porches and on rooftops across Canada, a growing number of urban apiarists are quietly tending their hives, many discreetly tucked behind a tall hedge or fence.

Driven by "a love of the critters," as one urban beekeeper put it, they connect through courses and clubs like the Toronto District Beekeepers' Association.

In Canada, 10,000 apiarists - 80 per cent of them hobbyists - keep hives that are registered with provincial agriculture ministries. The illegal beekeepers aren't registering, however, so it is difficult to estimate their number.

And generally, neighbours are happy to keep their mouths shut - in exchange for pollinated geraniums and a small gift to sweeten the deal.

"They give honey to their neighbours and their neighbours don't complain," says Brent Halsall, a bee inspector with the Ontario Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Rural Affairs, one of a crew of part-time employees who inspect commercial apiaries and investigate complaints about hobby hives.

For 50 years, Arne Axen, 72, has shared his backyard with bees. Honey sales financed his university education, and later became his livelihood when he immigrated from Sweden to British Columbia.

Today he sells honey and rents more than 100 bee colonies to farmers who need help pollinating blueberry and apple crops in British Columbia's fertile Fraser Valley. But his most productive hives are the ones on his back porch in New Westminster.

"There's never any let-up of nectar here in the city," Mr. Axen says.

Urban bees may even have a leg-up over their rural counterparts, said Paul Kelly, for the past 20 years head beekeeper at the University of Guelph. In places such as British Columbia, various plants bloom almost year-round, unlike the seasonal nature of crops.

Another bonus about urban beekeeping: "Lots of people have gardens that just wouldn't be pollinated without bees," Mr. Kelly says.

Jackob Felber, Mr. Axen's neighbour, happily reports that his rose bushes are thriving thanks to the nearby bees.

But life hasn't always been rosy on 8th Avenue East. A few years ago, New Westminster toughened its Beekeeping Bylaw No. 6648 after receiving complaints about the approximately 15 bee colonies, or hives, in Mr. Axen's backyard.

Now abiding by the rules, Mr. Axen keeps only two hives, which generally house between 40,000 to 80,000 bees each. But earlier this month, inspectors came knocking after hearing from a neighbour again - this time the owner of a vintage car. "My bees poop on the car regularly in the summer," Mr. Axen says.

Bee officials rarely receive complaints about urban beekeepers - and when they do, it usually has less to do with bees than "neighbours not getting along," says Mr. Halsall, who inspects bees in the Ottawa area.

Bees stinging, roosting in neighbours' trees or drinking from backyard swimming pools are common concerns. But the scariest honeybee phenomenon is swarms - when half a colony crowns a new queen bee and leaves the hive in search of a new home.

Police in Shelburne, N.S., issued an alert earlier this week when a swarm of about 40,000 honeybees - looking like a black cloud in flight - deserted their hobby beekeeper, Rodney Dillinger.

But swarms are rare in well-maintained hives, and most of the time bees are harmless, helpful creatures, says Paul van Westendorp, B.C.'s provincial apiculture specialist, who has worked with beekeepers for the past 40 years. Too often bees get a bad rap because they're misunderstood, he says.

"The vast majority of people cannot even distinguish between a wasp and a honeybee," Mr. van Westendorp said with a sigh. "They're just ... a bug."

Still, "there's tremendous interest in bees and beekeeping," says John Gibou, who has taught beekeeping 101 courses in Surrey for the past five years, and is considering expanding his program to meet the demand. He says more women are taking up the traditionally male-dominated activity.

It's the fascinating biology of honeybees, the reward of honey and the connection with nature that hooks bee enthusiasts, beekeepers say - and often the excitement is contagious. Neighbourhood children turn to urban beekeepers with questions, and their parents ask for help dealing with pests.

For 10 years, Bryce Ahlstrom, 58, has quietly tended eight hives tucked behind wild blackberry bushes and vegetable patches in a community garden in downtown Vancouver.

He operated illegally, without any complaints until Vancouver lifted its beekeeping ban in 2005.

"I get lots of calls from people looking for assistance in getting swarms out of their homes," says Mr. Ahlstrom, 58.

One time, after honeybees began building a hive on a woman's porch, he persuaded her to keep them as a science experiment for her son. Another time, a man asked for help getting rid of a wasp nest.

"That turned out to be more effort than it was worth," Mr. Ahlstrom said.

Three trips later, the wasps were evicted and the owner promised to deliver Mr. Ahlstrom a bottle of Scotch. "He never did," Mr. Ahlstrom said.