Country diary: Waiting for a nightjar is elusive and maddening – then thrilling | Mark Cocker

Goyt Valley, Derbyshire: My patience into dusk is rewarded with a full display of unlikely calls and aerial prowess

The setting sun spread a last Iberian glow over the hills opposite before they were drained of colour and sound, and by nine, the world was in monochrome. In line with national increases in their numbers and range, nightjars have prospered here recently. It seems especially so with the clearance of conifers, which has left a mix of old Scots pine and open space perfectly suited to this crepuscular ground-nesting migrant.

You hear nightjars much more than see them. Churring is the name given to their vocalisation – a continuous unfurling throat song that is one-part stridulation, one-part deep earth rumble. It feels subterranean, but also flows weightlessly like mist. Intermittently the unseen bird will turn its head; the song shifts key, then resumes, but its location is barely more obvious.