Spread across the village green is the remains of a fearsome picnic: pigeon feathers. It was probably a fox. My thoughts fly to Etheldreda and her partner Ethelred. Whose feathers lie ravaged on the grass? Are the eggs safe in my garden under their canopy of spent roses?

I almost run through the house and into the back garden and search with my eyes for the sitting bird. And there she or he is, silent, immutable, regarding me with a bright eye. I am so relieved. The pigeons are still there and the egg is still safe, warm under feathered body.

Notes:

My pergola rose has a nursery name of “Ethel”, consequently we named our visiting pigeons who nest there Etheldreda and Ethelred.