RHS Chelsea Flower Show.

What a contrast from my previous post! Bucolic serenity now swept aside for the hustle and bustle, the "mind-the-gap" and "tickets-please" of London and its world-famous Chelsea Flower Show.

An artistic depiction of the Chelsea crowds.
 I'm third from the right, sixth row.

Before going on, as this is a personal blog I think I shall briefly mention my exasperation* regarding Chelsea.  There were three acres of space beneath the roof of the Great Pavilion, and yet the show attracted so many thousands of people that every inch was filled. To stop moving and look at an exhibit was to block the way for someone behind - images of sardines in a shoal or wildebeest in a stampede vividly came to mind! Claustrophobia was not the issue, but rather the frustrating irony in being unable to pause and think at a celebration of the garden, the place of pausing and thinking.

That said, I must now move on to the things I admired at Chelsea. There is - of course - a reason for the crowds. The show gardens of Chelsea's Main Avenue varied from the boldly spectacular to the invitingly naturalistic, but all proved fascinating. They have been displayed and analysed constantly on television this week, their famed designers and their medals the subject of intense discussion. Despite the coverage, I think two unofficial honours were left unnoticed. Charlie Albone's pond in his garden 'The Time In Between' was slow to fill and swift to empty, symbolising the life of his late father - and this moving touch beckoned more of Saturday's crowds than any other, including Dan Pearson's 'The Chatsworth Garden' which won Best In Show. Secondly, in the evening it was Jo Thompson's garden 'The Retreat' which the designers and their families chose to congregate at as they celebrated the show's end together. Both scenes I found very telling indeed.

And now for the photos!

Another feature of Charlie Albone's garden 'The Time In Between': a fire pit in pale stone with an encircling bench. Balancing beauty with functionality is easy when the function itself seems so charming - to sit around a fire with loved ones.

Kamelia Bin Zaal's garden 'The Beauty of Islam' has such a modest colour palette and simple planting scheme that it achieves loveliness without distracting from prayer. 

Time spent at rest in the garden is not a guilty pleasure but something healthy and wholesome, and in 'The Breast Cancer Haven Artisan Garden' this seems affirmed by the creation of this woven oak-leaf seat for this very purpose.

'The Sculptor's Picnic Garden' feels theatrical and fantastical without being intimidatingly so. Every one around me stood before it looked as though they were envisaging themselves sat upon one of the chairs.

The softness of the moss underplanting Marcus Barnett's trees in 'The Telegraph Garden' contrasted vibrantly with the adjacent concrete walls, and were thus impossible to overlook.

* I was fortunate to have my folks accompanying me, their enthusiasm a real tonic during my grumblier moments. The highlight was undoubtedly the sight of my father stoically carrying three flowering irises and a Lady Plymouth geranium on the Circle Line train, and my mother's consequential delight.

The Dawn Chorus.

I was stumbling about the garden at four o'clock in the morning today. Four o'clock in the morning? Four? I jest not. And on a Sunday, I might add further. This does seem to be the behaviour of a man strange or confused (a fair assertion against me usually), but on this occasion I had a reason.

With the warmth and light of May, spring has completed its beautiful envelopment of the garden. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the wilder areas of the Estate where it goes unchecked: the trees have burst with damp fresh leaves and in their dappled light the grasses are lush, flecked with the colours of wildflowers and butterflies. Birdsong rises as nests are made in the ever-deepening greenery - and during the dewy tranquillity of today's dawn I tramped in, to listen to its chorus.

I was not alone - indeed, this was an event specially organised by the RHS for those seeking to learn more of the calls and whistles drifting from tree canopies and hedgerows in spring, and the birds they belong to. Twenty arrived, patiently led by a sharp-eared and (perhaps more important for me at four in the morning) softly-spoken man by the name of Neil from the Essex Wildlife Trust. With his knowledge and direction, I could hear cuckoos, blackcaps, goldfinches, and even witnessed a whitethroat gathering twigs for a nest. I didn't know what a whitethroat was before this morning, but I do now. The charming thing about such a long morning was the chance to give each bird several minutes, until every person present was eventually smiling and nodding. Moreover, the more familiar fauna of Hyde Hall - the hares, pheasants and waterfowl - seemed to appreciate that at such a time of day we were far too sleepy to cause them any disturbance, meaning we could view them closer than usual before they slipped away. A wholly enchanting experience that I shall remember and repeat. I might bring a flask next time though!