It felt as if I had uncovered a secret I was never meant to witness. Hidden from view, resting on scattered husks of beechmast within the dimly lit confines – two white eggs. Viewing any bird’s nest always seems like prying, sharing in a confidence with which one has no business. But I reckoned I deserved a peek, having provided the shelter in the first place. Several years ago, I fastened a large wooden box to a tree at the end of my garden in the hope that it might one day provide a home for a kestrel or an owl. Instead a pair of unexpected visitors turned up this spring – stock doves. I had never recorded stock doves in my garden before, so was delighted when I first noticed their repetitive cooing, the rhythm similar to that of someone pumping up a lilo. A hole-nesting species of farmland and woodland habitats, the stock dove closely resembles an urban street pigeon. Yet it has a wild and wary nature and subtle beauty. Most notable is the spray-can blast of metallic green on its neck. The pair were so shy that I seldom saw them visiting the nest box. But with the aid of a ladder I was able to discreetly check on progress. For three weeks it was just the eggs, illuminated by slivers of light, their touching sides sharing the warmth that stirred life within. Then one morning I discovered two bleary-eyed chicks, fluffy and gormless as Easter cake decorations, squatting amid their shell fragments. As the days passed, the growing young began to bristle with the quills of growing wing feathers until, eventually, they became recognisable as stock doves, their contours smoothed by blue-grey plumage. This is a species that is faring well, much like the ubiquitous wood pigeon. Yet despite being relatively common, the stock dove is less conspicuous than its portly relative and easily overlooked. Perhaps surprisingly, the UK is home to at least a quarter of the world’s population. My garden box, open-mouthed and empty-bellied for so long, had helped add two more doves to national numbers. I checked it again in late June and the fledglings had flown their refuge – splinters of shell all that remained of the secret I had shared.