It's a truism that London never ceases to surprise. But still. Having lived in the same area for ten years, I came across a nature reserve I never even knew existed - a mere 15 minutes stroll from my doorstep! Mind you, it has only been open to the public for about two years, and only on limited days. That it is open at all now is thanks to a project called Phytology and it was the latter that brought me there.

Someone I'd met (thanks Leila!) had told me: "Google 'phytology' and 'Bethnal Green'." I did. And then I went last weekend to see for myself. It was late afternoon and it had been raining heavily for most of the day. But now the sun peeped out behind clouds and the air was warm and freshly washed and full of steam (or should that be "vapour"?). Everything was drenched in that smell of lush vegetation, moist soil and other heady scents of early summer, most notably elderflower.

The site of the nature reserve is well hidden in a bland and non-descript housing estate. I'd walked the streets nearby many a times without once suspecting there'd be an urban wilderness so close. Apparently, this "invisibility" is deliberate. High metal fences surround the plot, erected in the early 1980s by the local council to prevent fly-tipping. And then there is an opening in the fence, a gate, and a sign-board inviting you in. I followed it and suddenly, like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia, I was in a different world.

Narrow paths snake through a gloriously overgrown plot, trees and shrubs close over you and shut out the rest of the world. A clearing, furnished with bits of tree trunks: the "amphitheatre". On you sneak, ducking the branches that at the lightest of touches are ready to soak you with a shower of still-there droplets. Suddenly a female voice out of nowhere, singing what sounds like an Irish folk tune to me. Stopping in my tracks I look around and detect a little black box strung among the trees, a speaker - the song triggered by my motion.

I was "warned": online I'd read about the sound installation, an art project exploring the cultural heritage of this particular place. Up until industrialisation arrived, the area consisted of fields, meadows and market gardens. In the early part of the 19th century, urban poverty took over.

The next "stop" on the sound installation is about war, a poetic male voice talking about the experience of utter destruction. From 1846 on the site of the nature reserve was that of a church, St. Jude's, until it was bombed in World War II. Beyond rebuilding, and perhaps due to a lack of the means for it, nature took over. Decades later, locals recognized its value as a new sanctuary in its own right, cleared the ruins and campaigned for it to be protected.

As I stood and listened, sun streamed through the green, drops glistened everywhere, birds sang, a red robin sat close and the bells of a nearby church started to ring. It felt almost clerical or spiritual, for want of a better word.

On I went, passing fungi, piles of brushwood and more art works. Street Artist Lucy McLauchlan has created what is called Places to Dwell that May Never Have Been Seen. In essence, these are found materials, waste if you want, fashioned into sculptures and painted on in Lucy's distinct style that are to double up as a home for various wildlife. (I loved the idea, but I did wonder if some of the more intelligent wildlife, such as birds, might be put off using a nest box that looked like e.g. a long-nosed face - perhaps they'd object to "big eyes staring" every time they wanted to enter?)

The last of the sound installations I listened to eventually created the link to the next part: Something akin to a woman's prayer or invocation about delayed birth, in the spirit of old folk traditions. This is apt because the Phytology project came into existence when its initiator Michael Smythe looked for a place to create a medicinal field containing plants used in herbalism. "Phytology" is an old word meaning "botany" and the aim was to grow common plants, often regarded as weeds, that nonetheless have been used to heal for centuries, another term for the latter being "phytotherapy".

32 species have been sown or planted in one area of the nature reserve, among them comfrey (Symphytum officinale), common nettle (Urtica dioica), dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), greater burdock (Arctium lappa), marsh mallow (Althaea officinalis), ribwort plantain (Plantago lanceolata), shepherd's purse (Capsella bursa-pastoris) and yarrow (Achillea millefolium). Now they are established, everyone is invited to come on opening days (Saturdays from 11am to 6pm) and harvest them for their own use, with the Phytology team on hand to educate and advise and to show how to brew teas or make lotions. There is a hut containing a library on the subject which you are welcome to explore, or you may be offered to sample some of the infusions the gardeners have mixed.

When I ambled around, I was approached very friendly by a man who turned out to be Michael, asking me whether I had been here before, wanted information or help and then encouraging me to pick from the plants according to my own needs or desires. A young woman had gathered a lovely bunch that looked more like a wildflower bouquet than herbs destined for use as DIY apothecary stock. It's easy to forget just how beautiful "medicine" can be.

Foraging and herbal remedies were a normal part of my childhood. We picked fungi and all sorts of berries regularly. This was mainly for culinary purposes, but I also remember being given juice from sea buckthorn for the vitamin C it contains, "to ward off colds". For the same reason, we'd sip tea with elderberry juice or have elderberry soup in winter. I remember young stinging nettles cooked and eaten like spinach, and plantain (Plantago major) being applied on scratches, often much readier to hand than a sticking plaster. There are plenty of other examples.

Likewise, it is commonplace in Germany to buy dried medicinal herbs - readily packaged these days - in an apothecary or sometimes at markets. My "medicinal cabinet" used to include elderflower, lime-blossoms and the flowers of camomile, cowslip, coltsfoot, common mallow, great mullein, lavender and pot marigolds, as well as hop cones, fennel seeds, lemon balm, common sage, thyme, eucalyptus, hyssop, lady's mantle, hairy willow-herb and bearberry leaves amongst others. And that's not even counting the  branded over-the-counter herbal remedies you can buy: ointments, balms, tinctures, extracts, pills... From upset stomachs to insomnia, these are the go-to-remedies for any minor illness. A GP might well prescribe say a particular, branded, extract from thyme and cowslip roots for your cough.

On coming to Britain, I was most surprise to find it wasn't the same here, too. Chemists stock next to no herbal remedies, products with Echinacea perhaps being the exception to the rule. Neither have I ever been prescribed one, not even for the children. When I once asked a GP why, the answer quite shocked me: "We don't believe in it!", I was told. Well - until comparatively recently in human history, herbal remedies were the only medication that mankind ever had. And what was pharmaceutical chemistry based on to start with?

While I'm sure you can buy dried medicinal herbs in Britain, so far I've never come across them - safe for those also used in the kitchen. (I didn't look online though, I must admit.) That's why my interest was piqued considerably when I first learned about the Phytology project and its medicinal field.

But there is so much else to this project, a lot of which doesn't meet the eye immediately. As they describe themselves on their website: Phytology is an artist and community led project exploring the use, value, resilience and function of wilderness within urban ecosystems. Launched at Bethnal Green Nature Reserve in 2014, Phytology is part physic garden; part cultural institute; part urban wilderness; and a platform for collaboration between artist, musicians, writers and a wide variety of community groups.

I will have to come back to it with another post, I think. For now, here are a few pictures of the wildlife most visible in the Bethnal Green Nature Reserve last weekend: Hard to navigate as they were everywhere, thanks to the rain. Unlike in my own garden where inevitably they pose a threat to my beloved and cosseted green treasures, over there I could wholeheartedly enjoy them and admire their patterns and acrobatics.

To the gardening world, the Chelsea Flower Show is what Mecca is to devout Muslims: the holy site to which every gardener worth his or her salt should make a pilgrimage at least once in their life. That, at least, is the impression you get when reading gardening magazines. German titles seem to be particularly anglophile. Having thus been indoctrinated for years, there was one "newbie" adding to the many German voices among visitors to the show grounds a week ago. I've finally taken my mum there as a birthday present.

Coverage of the Chelsea Flower Show is extensive - both in traditional media and on the web. The Frustrated Gardener, for instance, has given such a thorough account of the show gardens on his blog, along with great pictures, that there seems little to add. Except, of course, a subjective take on the gardens which by definition will vary from person to person. But what is the overall impression of someone who's read a lot about the show yet has never seen TV coverage or been herself before? And who's never seen any of the other Royal Horticultural Society shows, such as Hampton Court Palace or Tatton Park, either?

I have been in this situation myself not that long ago, so I remember very well. Any media coverage I'd come across - exclusively print media, I have to admit - focussed on the design of the gardens and new plants or products introduced to the horticultural world. That's not surprising since this is the "new" bit each year, the part that keeps it fresh and exciting to those familiar with the show. But it only tells part of the story. Consequently, the biggest shock is how large the site is and how much there is to see. Especially how much "else".

Not just the show gardens which were larger in reality than both my mother and - a few years ago - I had anticipated. Not just the plants in the Great Pavilion where the nurseries have their stalls, not just several high-profile floristry competitions, but all manner of other garden and lifestyle related stuff! Sculptures, sheds, conservatories, garden houses, wellies, tools and labels are among the more obvious, as are stalls of societies like the Wildlife Trusts and those of gardening magazines and garden design schools. From artificial turf and barbeque grills to garden furniture, urns and water features there is all your garden could ever need. If you have the space and budget, you can order a tree castle complete with turrets and draw bridge at the show.

On top, however, there is any amount of trinkets and products such as stationary, toiletries, mugs and flower-printed umbrellas. Twisted metal sticks with all sorts of ornamental finials seemed to be the most in-demand thing, lots of visitors wandering around with these "beautifying wands". But perhaps these were just the most visible: slim and light enough not to need delivery but too big to disappear in bags. Despite wandering around the show from shortly after opening time at 8am until they kicked us out at 8pm, we didn't manage to give more than a passing glance to most stalls and stands. Not that we regretted much: as we finally left the grounds, my mother remarked: "Incredible to see what's out there and remarkable how little of it you actually need."

The second big surprise to the uninitiated is how lovely most stands are to look at. It's not just the show gardens that feature lovely planting! I often found myself thinking: "I'd be happy to have just this bed or container in my plot!" Obviously, the retailers of the more expensive lifestyle products have more of a reputation to gain and to keep, but almost everyone seems to join in the effort to make the Chelsea Flower Show as visually pleasing as possible. Not all that surprising perhaps, given that organizer RHS awards stars for traders' displays as well. Consequently, you are distracted by beautiful plant combinations everywhere and sometimes it's not that easy to distinguish between the smaller show gardens (as in the Fresh category) and the bigger companies' stands.

And finally: the Great Pavilion. Neither my mum nor I had thought it this extensive. And while she expressed surprise at how many specialized nurseries there were - concentrating on just hostas or lilies or heucheras - I remember being most impressed by the style of display. I guess my expectations as a Chelsea newbie were something along the lines of village show exhibits: not by quality standards, of course, but in terms of presentation. I'd heard of medals for prize blooms and consequently thought nursery people and other entrants would line up and showcase their flowers and plants for competition.

Perhaps it was thus decades ago. There are echoes of it to be found, most notably in the big bunches (or bouquets) of a single cultivar of chrysanthemum or lilies in front of a plain coloured background. But for most it is much more "showbiz" than that. In essence, there are dozens of miniature gardens inside the marquee. Either "proper" little gardens, often built by colleges or institutions, or arrangements of plants that show them in a garden-like combination. Being a shade garden lover I especially swooned and cooed over stalls such as Harveys Garden Plants which weave a rich tapestry of the most covetable woodland gems with an admirable eye for contrasting forms, textures and patterns. It's a style pioneered by Beth Chatto when she exhibited all those years ago, if what I've read in books is correct.

Anchusa azurea "Loddon Royalist" caught my mother's eye as it had mine a few years earlier. She especially loved it in combination with Orlaya grandiflora, another of her favourites. But then: who are we kidding trying to choose favourites? Trouble is, in there almost everything looks covetable and desirable and is likely to spark enthusiasm. I'm not much of a fan of rock gardens, for instance, but the individual alpine plants are very beautiful and the way the Alpine Garden Society displays had me nearly sign up with them on more than one visit.
At some point during the day, however, your mind starts shutting down: too much, can't compute more...

There was but a single display we both heartily disliked and that consisted of huge, blowsy delphiniums in all shades of blue. In front, there were tuberous begonias with flowers in yellow, orange and salmon the size of dinner plates. "Gaudy" is an understatement...

In contrast, the perhaps most beautiful nursery stand of all likewise concentrated on a very narrow selection of plants: In fact, Ashwood Nursery showed nothing but hepaticas but it couldn't have been more different if it tried. Nursery owner John Massey seems to have enchanted everyone with these diminutive but exquisite little plants since he received not just a Gold Medal but the Diamond Jubilee Award for Best Exhibit in the Great Pavilion - though we only found out later. More than justified, we thought, even if the fact that it was the first time ever hepaticas have been shown as a single exhibit at Chelsea may have helped.

And what did we make of this year's show gardens? There was one we really didn't like, and that was the recreation of a bit of Provence for sponsor L'Occitane. It was a very skilful recreation of a sparse, dry Mediterranean landscape, amazingly well done, but a garden it was not. Unless, of course, you count any plot that's been fenced in in the manner of the original meaning of hortus. From the main show gardens, we weren't convinced by the Cloudy Bay Garden either: too fluffy, somehow, due to all the grasses. Having noticed there were many unopened Agapanthus buds, however, I wonder if the effect had been different if these were in full bloom? Perhaps the idea was to have many big blue or white flower spheres as visual counterpoints dotted throughout, and the long chilly weather simply 
prevented this?

Likewise, the Watahan East & West Garden didn't do it for us: the mixture seemed too odd or disjointed, neither fish nor fowl. And we thought it a real pity that the Brewin Dolphin Garden - Forever Freefolk was spoiled not just by what looked like a pavilion and stepping stones in the "dry chalk stream" made of wheel covers (something that at least fitted its message) but, much worse, by what I couldn't help but think of as a runner's track in Olympic colours - a running track that wound its way through the entire site, visually overpowering even the brightly coloured flowers, and felt totally out of place there.

On the opposite end were the Winton Beauty of Mathematics Garden, Clive West's garden for M&G and Jo Thompson's Chelsea Barracks Garden. For someone who loves a woodland garden more than anything, Clive West's Exmoor-inspired natural symphony was the highlight of the show. But Thompson's design was a close second. Contemporary and bold, yet with "traditional" flowers in a more traditional, subdued colour scheme it exuded incredible calm. While regular show visitors may have found it too conventional in the sense of "seen it all before", we nearly agreed it to be our favourite.

The "Best in Show", Andy Sturgeon's garden for The Telegraph, we liked very much but couldn't really connect to on an emotional level. What I admired most was the layout and spacial division of his design. As for the much-hyped British Eccentrics Garden: I loved Diarmuid Gavin's jewel coloured borders. The twirling bay trees, bobbing box balls etc. were a technological feat, I'm sure, but otherwise left me cold. Perhaps it's because I'm not British, far too sober and not eccentric enough, but as the crowds cheered and clapped, I failed to understand the general excitement. For a representation of its chosen theme, I thought the small clockwork model in the corrugated iron "shed" at the back of the garden much better.

So, is the Chelsea Flower Show the gardener's Mecca? Perhaps. My mum, with the ticket being a present, was far too polite to say anything less. It certainly is worth making the pilgrimage once, if only to have an idea what all the fuss is about. After that it depends on how close or far you live and what your budget is or how tolerant of crowds you are. I've never seen the TV coverage but could imagine it to be not just more relaxing but potentially you'll be able to spot more details of the individual gardens. There on a day ticket, it is simply overwhelming for a newbie. Try as you may, you can't take in everything as you'd want to.

Then again, quite likely you'll get used to it over the years, leave out most of it and concentrate on your favourite bits - and perhaps just go for a few hours in the afternoon or first thing in the morning when it is slightly less overrun. Despite having a few shows under my (visitor's) belt, I'm not there yet myself. So I guess I have to keep coming back...