This must have been the most glorious Early May bank holiday weekend on record! Three days of pure sunshine and deep blue skies with not a cloud in sight and temperatures even summer does not often spoil you with in Britain. With fond memories of an equally brilliant day there a couple of years ago, we spent the Sunday at Stowe Landscape Garden, now in the care of the National Trust. It is, of course, one of the iconic gardens of Britain and indeed in the history of garden design. I first learned about Stowe many years ago at university, long before I came to Britain.

The very first sentence of the guidebook had me smiling: "Visitors to Stowe sometimes ask, understandably enough, where the flower gardens are, and it has to be explained that Stowe is not that kind of garden."

Even earlier than uni, in my teens, a friend had invited me round to her hometown and showed me another very famous example of "not that kind of garden". In fact, the garden realm at Dessau-Woerlitz in Germany, now a UNESCO world heritage site, was directly inspired by Stowe as far as I know. I remember going and finding myself mightily disappointed: Where were those famous gardens?? It was November and hence not the best time for garden visiting anyway, but back then the only gardens you'd go "visit" I knew were stately Baroque-style affairs, formal in style (think Versailles), with many sculptures and box parterres etc. Here: nothing of that sort. Just some clumps of trees, rolling acres of grass and lakes, a few bridges...

Obviously, these are the classic elements of an English landscape garden. As the guidebook to Stowe continues: "Though there are a few formal flowerbeds within the balustrade on the south side of the house, all beyond is a picture of idealised nature, whose elements are grass and trees and water, with buildings carefully sited to give accents to the view and allow the wandering eye a resting place." So, yes - in order to appreciate it as a "famous garden" or indeed a "garden" at all, you'd better have at least a rough idea about the English landscape garden movement, its origins, principles and place in history.

Books have been written and continue to be written, of course, about this history and the philosophy and meaning of Stowe and other iconic examples of the period, such as Stourhead. The National Trust guide book sums it up briefly on its flap (before elaborating inside):

"Created by Viscount Cobham in the grounds of his family home, the garden came to reflect a coherent programme of ideas based on Cobham's hugely influential network of political affiliations, and it was realized by that eighteenth-century master of garden design, William Kent. Encapsulating an idealised Whig vision of constitutional monarchy and political freedom, the garden featured a series of extraordinary and innovative garden buildings, designed by the leading architects of the day and ranging from the Temple of Ancient Virtue and a Rotondo to Lake Pavillions, a Chinee House and a Grotto, all set in carefully constructed Arcadian landscape of valleys and lakes."

But you do not need to know any of this in order to enjoy the place as a destination! Whether you know the landscape was deliberately made to appear like that or not does not inhibit your enjoyment of it. As with most art forms, such as music, architecture or furniture making, knowledge adds a layer, enhances or deepens your enjoyment - but merely that. For even as a total ignoramus you cannot fail to be charmed by this "landscape", to breath deeply and congratulate yourself for coming here with your picnic blanket for a relaxing and recharging day out. My daughter - who'd previously tried mutiny on learning we'd be going to a garden rather than the seaside - was instantly swayed and forgot to complain.

Returning once more to the artistic side though: on purely aesthetic terms, I think I prefer the William Kent-like gardens to those "Capability" Brown landscapes that seem to come without follies (and rely on clumps of trees, lakes and vast expanses of grass alone). Obviously, I don't care about the political statements/ implications/ philosophy expressed therein, but I love most of the visual anchors dotted around the former. I say "most" because I loath the Gothic Temple, for instance, and I dislike those "ruins" or "pyramids" that became so fashionable at the time.

In fact, many of the follies are quite ugly close up  - roughly executed, to be admired from afar rather than appreciated at close quarters. I can't help but feel the owners either ran out of money or wanted to avoid just that, suddenly aware even they had to keep an eye on the budget: "Build me a temple there, will you? Should look like the real thing from across the lake - but don't worry about execution of the finer details, would be a waste of money as we won't use it for anything else anyway. No one's ever getting that close and anyway, it's the idea that counts." These buildings (in the sense of "a thing that has been built") look as if the builders have finished and left but the interior architects/ decorators haven't moved in yet.

But they do work a treat in the way they were intended. Walking around the landscaped garden, they suddenly pop up as if out of no-where, to such an effect as to often cause your jaw to drop. Again and again I've found myself marvelling at the skill of the person devising these axes. Even though you know where e.g. the Rotunda is - you've glimpsed it through semi-bare trees before - you won't see it for several minutes along the way until you suddenly come to a point where it is revealed to full stunning effect that couldn't be more beautiful even if one tried (which, of course, is what they did and aimed for!).

And not just one feature per view! Quite often, the skill is such that you do not only see one folly from your view point but the eye is led further into the distance by yet another built structure much farther afield that reveals itself again from that very point you are standing at. Neither of which was visible just a few paces before. Pure magic and mastery of the craft! You can't fail to be in full admiration and awe - even if only on a subconscious level.

Conceal and reveal, surprise and awe, to induce strong emotions/ sensations - which, back in the day, would be accompanied by the political statements. These would likely be pointed out to you by the owner showing you around or a booklet or guide to explain the features to you. Not the interpretation, of course - these would have been obvious to visitors of the time - but the "title" of features like "Temple of Ancient Virtue" (as opposed to "Temple of Modern Virtue") for you to draw your conclusions.

It has to be one of the loveliest forms of Political PR imaginable! And - just a thought - one of the most powerful and persuasive as it is immersive and engages most of your senses in a setting where your senses are most open to any stimulation? So - any landowner keen follow suit and make a political statement for our day and age? Somehow I can only imagine a good example for "Remain" rather than "Brexit" (in the British case), for "inclusiveness and reaching out" rather than what "Trumpism" stands for.

                       What would the modern equivalent of political PR in a garden be like?

As the guidebook tells me, Stowe's Palladian Bridge for instance was decorated with sculptural reliefs stressing the importance of trade British prosperity. Based on fact rather than wishful thinking that would point to a "Remain" vote then? Actually, I think you could conceivably claim Stowe for either side of the contemporary argument. And it is void, of course, because those were different times, different politics, different sentiments and totally different competing ideas anyway. It would be grossly absurd and plain wrong to link Stowe's creators to either faction of today's big divide. It's tempting to make the comparison - but I'm only doing it via association of thought, purely speculatively, rather than claiming there is any connection, any actual relevance here.

The National Trust's guide book again: " 'What does the garden mean?' is hardly ever asked. For the concept that a garden as large as Stowe could have a specific and detailed programme of meaning - a sort of philosophic or political manifesto on the ground - is alien to our way of thinking." Still: It could be fun imaging what either could look like, though I wouldn't want to waste any time on that when lying underneath a tree in fresh leaf, gazing up into that juicy green and vivid blue.

The only regret as a visitor I have is that the National Trust closes Stowe at 5pm already, leaving you not all that much time to explore and enjoy - especially if you travel from a little further afield. Also, apart from the sheer size which makes it near-impossible to discover most of it in one day if you also want to sit down a while and just enjoy taking it in, having a picnic and perhaps a game of badminton: because of these closing times you miss out on the glorious late afternoon and evening light which add considerably to the garden's beauty (as opposed to the flat light of the glaring midday sun). But of course, National Trust staff - in fact, many of them volunteers - want to go home and have time off, too. Well, there is one good reason to participate in Stowe's big "Camp Off" in August, I'd say.

Do you know the feeling when you unexpectedly stumble upon something you have never heard of/ seen/ been to before - be it a new favourite book or a garden or whatever - and you suddenly are all bubbling with excitement about it, so glad you crossed paths? I felt that way recently on discovering the work of Mark Dion.

I came to the Whitechapel Gallery in East London having never even heard his name before. But the advert for its latest exhibition had made me curious: called "Theatre of the Natural World" a picture showed a tree stump with books about birds and plants stacked in the forks of a tree trunk and hacked back branches - as if on a shelf - plus a smorgasboard of tools and paraphernalia you'd associate with an explorer or Natural Historian scattered underneath. What was that supposed to be?

I'm so glad I went. From the moment I stepped in I was mesmerized, relishing the sense of humour so evident throughout. As  I see it, it's a sense of humour that will be shared by people who love the Monty Python movie "The Life of Brian": somewhat black, not taking yourself or your mission too seriously and needing a certain amount of insider knowledge to fully appreciate the gags. With "The Life of Brian" you'd need a rudimentary knowledge of the Bible's New Testament, here you should have a rudimentary idea of how Natural History - as a science - works: its general methods of research, how explorers went about gathering knowledge, and how it was shared etc..

I know others may see things differently, perhaps even contradict there is humour in this in the first place, choosing to interpret it as sarcasm or other sentiments. More on which later. But I felt that Mark Dion and this exhibition possess a great sense of humour above all else. 

On entering, you find yourself in a gallery hall the centre of which is taken up by a giant cage or aviary. In it, the aforementioned installation - plus a good number of living birds! It's called "The Library for the Birds of London", although the zebra finches which populate it are not birds that you'd find here in the wild. Then again, you would not want to subject wild birds, unused to life in an aviary, to this. In fact, you can't help but feel a little sorry for the birds despite the many feeders and water bowls.

However, there is a panel explaining how there well-being is safeguarded and staff are making sure only four people at a time are inside. For you can enter this curious aviary. I returned several times. The zebra finches seem as happy as Larry, quite unconcerned about their unusual habitat. Their happy chit-chat can't fail to lighten your mood and endear them to even the most hardened of souls.

Much better still is watching them go about their business - such as building nests. There are plenty of thick ropes with their fibres coming a bit loose. One bird spent about a quarter of an hour trying to rip a shred from the lining of an old cap or hat, another struggled heroically with a twig that really was too long and heavy for it, so - with one end in its beak - he hopped around in circles. While this description may seem almost cruel, it is no different to what birds would do in a natural environment: tugging at whatever is present to build and line their homes.

And they do succeed: there were plenty of nests the zebra finches had built (or started to build) already - and, bless them, with no concern of course for precious human knowledge! The most energetic nest-building while I watched took place in a gap between taller books on these "shelves". Right on top of "A field guide to the birds of Britain" and "Wildflowers of the British Isles", among other titles! It goes without saying that the birds aren't "toilet trained" either, so all these books are unlikely to ever be read again... As metaphors go, this must be one of the best telling you to not be stuck-up about your learning/ career achievements! Slightly sad perhaps, for we humans tend to crave "making a [hopefully positive] lasting impact" or "leaving a mark", but quite poignant. And with these cute, cheerful, unconcerned birds the blow to our ego is certainly softened.

In the same gallery hall, there are a number of other installations - most notably a trio (or quartet, if you include the fallen, broken one)  of hides for birdwatchers, or hunters' blinds. From the outside they looked just like the normal version: built from corrugated metal sheets or coarse wood, camouflaged with reeds perhaps, or only reached via a ladder.

However, one had been set up with a rustic table laid out for a hearty feast, with cured meats dangling from the ceiling like you might encounter in a rural inn in Spain. Another was equipped with chandelier, elegant sofa and a tray of liqueur bottles and glasses on a side table. And the third was furnished as a hideaway for a solitary soul, complete with shelves full of books, thermoflask and a comfy armchair. Wildlife watching has never seemed so tempting... Except, of course, you are not very likely to see any wildlife if you indulge in the offerings of these hides. And as hunters' blinds they allow for a well-observed typology of hunters.

The following rooms yielded artwork in a similar vein: created to look like the study of Natural Historian or scientist, for instance, you could e.g. examine books which looked like serious scientific works but were by Mark Dion, covering some of his previous artworks which veer between installation, drawings and perhaps performance (such as  when participating in field trips). A [replica] twisted horn of a narwhale, carefully labelled "horn of unicorn" (as indeed the myth had been) lay in a wooden crate; drawings of what seemed like the family tree of a particular species - except it was something totally absurd - hung on the walls, and much more which made me chuckle and grin.

I felt right at home, too: not only do I love Natural History and am always fascinated seeing work spaces of scientists from years gone by - Darwin, say, or other, less famous people. But my dad, himself a microbiologist, has a similar sense of humour and expressed it deftly: I grew up with pictures depicting famous buildings - which he had fashioned as a collage from photos of bacteria and viruses. Or a frame that showcased a jaw-shaped flint, painted in a colour reminiscent of faded bone, with the title of "Ursus beissfestus". Ursus, of course, is the Latin name for bears - the Brown bear being Ursus arctos. However, "beissfestus" is my dad's invention and would translate as "bite hardus" - apt for a "jaw" of stone... I couldn't help but think that Mark Dion and my dad would get on very well indeed.

Granted, there was a darker side, too: The series of drawings of dead trees made with tar, for instance. Or the series of photographs of stuffed polar bears in Natural History Museums across the world, begging the question 'Will these soon be the last remainders of their species?'.

The "study" was followed by the "Bureau of the Centre for the Study of Surrealism and its Legacy" which I would have loved to explore close-up but unfortunately you are only allowed to view through the windows. It's another Victorian-looking "study" full of scientific instruments, tools of the trade and collections of man-made and natural curiosities. I do not know enough about Surrealism in art to "get" the references but guess there are plenty that will elicit smiles from those more knowledgeable than me.

More accessible (in more than one sense) was the huge cabinet in the next room called Tate Thames Dig: A few years ago volunteers had been mudlarking along the banks of the river Thames for Dion and their numerous and varied finds were presented here like you might find in the research wings of museums - in drawers for geological specimens, say, or an entomological collection. Here, however, there was everything: plastic bottle caps, colour-sorted like a rainbow, in one drawer, broken clay pipes and older artefacts in another. Modern electronic garbage next to lost driving licences, toys or cutlery, large numbers of bones and oyster shells - all laid out and sorted as if it was the most precious, significant find.

Yes, it hints at something dark: how mankind pollutes the environment. How random things tell of so many lives lived in the past, random things only that remain of a person's life and tell of his or her existence when they are long gone. But - and here I return to my introductory comment - I refuse to see this as the key to the exhibition. You see, the art critic of TimeOut magazine commented that "suddenly the whole show makes sense."

He continues: "Dion is saying that you, as an individual, are destined to be forgotten. The only way you'll be remembered is through the detritus you leave behind [...]. Dion is showing us that we are nothing but the effect we have on the world. We are the pollution we cause, the rubbish we dump." His review is interesting and perhaps much deeper than mine. For instance, he describes the hunting blinds thus: "enormous structures for hiding yourself away and laying in wait for your prey. Each is filled with books, trophies and chairs or laid out for a dinner party. The prey here, metaphor fans, is knowledge itself. One of the blinds has fallen and collapsed. It's a futile pursuit."

However, I disagree with his overall sentiment or interpretation. For this critic, "US artist Mark Dion's whole career is a wunderkammer where wonder has been replaced with ecological misery. He's sort of like a little kid with a butterfly net who gave up catching bugs decades ago, and instead started catching ideas. [I love the latter comparison/ picture!] His retrospective show here is full of the symbols and signifiers of academic research [...] but instead of science, he's delving into ideas of human impact, of the nature of the quest for knowledge, of futility and frustration."

Maybe he is right. Maybe Dion really wants us to read and interpret his art this way. The introduction to the exhibition-accompanying book - not written by Dion -  speaks of "a journey that in turn carries a narrative": from the enchanting, lively birds in the aviary via the hunters' blinds "from which human predators can spy and kill" to "analysis" and finally the wunderkammer - or 'room of wonder' - which traditionally held  natural curiosities and awe-inspiring objects, both for study and reasons of prestige. Here though, we are "plunged into darkness and the company of 124 ghosts, pale green corpses of animals and instruments that glow in the dark [plaster casts or sculptures of real-looking and unreal objects which are lit by spotlights in a light neon-green]. We have travelled from the light and the energy of living birds to the luminous yet eerie trophies of obsolescence and extinction."

But I refuse to see it like this. For me the show is about absurdity, with warning undertones, yes, but most of all coupled with a strong sense of humour. About someone telling us, with a mischievous twinkle in the eye, not to take ourselves too seriously, especially not those "learned souls" of academic scientists. I prefer to see it as someone  poking fun at his own "caste" (for apparently Dion started out studying Natural History or similar) almost like a court jester who speaks truth to power in a roundabout way. And since it has wider implications, because those ornithology books in the aviary could just as well be law books or stock exchange reports or whatever, it is art for everyone - not just scientists.

However you choose to interpret it, catch this exhibition if you can - or look out for a Mark Dion show near you... This one is on at the Whitechapel Gallery until May 13th.

As a plant lover, I found what could be the perfect antidote or perhaps riposte to this somewhat depressing notion of "What remains of life after death?". In fact, it was only two weeks later that I hastened to Kew to finally catch an exhibition in the Shirley Sherwood gallery for botanical art before it closed in mid-March. The main room there had been given over to Rebecca Louise Law's installation Life in Death.

It was enchanting. There is no other word for it. 1000 garlands of dried flowers, each five metres long, were suspended from the ceiling, filling the entire room. Only a path, meandering through, was left so you could actually immerse yourself in this artwork (without risking damage) rather than just watching from the side lines. I'm not normally a fan of dried flowers. They always remind me of those dust-gathering bouquets so fashionable in the 70ties. This was something entirely different though.

Threaded or knotted onto fine copper wire were many different kinds of plant material. From posy-like bunches of grasses to poppy seed heads to roses or delphinium flowers, the colours and textures varied widely. Also, some garlands featured just one species and the individual flowers or bunches were widely spaced along the thread, giving it a very light and airy feel.  By contrast, others had a wild mix of petals, seed heads, flowers etc. tightly packed onto the wire so the whole garland looked almost columnar.

My very first impression was that of a heavy snow fall: you know, when there is little wind so the flakes float down vertically in total silence but they come so thick and fast you still can hardly see for more than a few steps. That's what it felt like at first, only with much more colour and at a more ambient temperature! Walking through, this installation revealed an ever-changing kaleidoscope of views - both looking across the room and, of course, in close-up.

It was absolutely stunning and the staff member positioned as a gallery guard confided he loved watching people's reaction to it. He also told me that many people had returned several times and reported always discovering something new. I bet they did. And I was slightly angry with myself for not having gone earlier so I, too, could return for a second or third time. Never mind. I did enjoy it then and there at length.

Life in Death indeed. Even whilst there I felt it was a brilliant answer to the question posed by Dion, namely "what remains of us after death". Aren't plant lovers lucky? Not only do we get to annually witness the endless cycle of rebirth after death - be it from new buds or seeds - we even get to see that death for the individual itself does not always mean the end or total annihilation. (Although, of course, humans tend no to preserve so well or beautifully...) A symbol of hope then, the perfect metaphor for the resurrection: Happy Easter!