Country diary: The sense of emptiness in these driven-grouse moors stirs a deep melancholy

Combs Moss at dusk. ‘There can be no sign of any wild vertebrate life … except your own troubled heartbeat.’ Photograph: Mark Cocker

It’s one of my midsummer rituals, if the forecast is right, to climb on to the moorland tops and await sunset. I build in several secondary goals: check if there are lapwings still on eggs in the sheep pasture below the summit (just two); see if there are curlew pairs breeding in the heather (only three).

These exercises add to a personal dataset that is 50 years old. While I can confirm that, in all that time, snipes, curlews, lapwings and golden plovers have bred annually, both redshanks and dunlins have long gone and the other quartet is much diminished. As a result, Combs Moss is steeped in melancholy for me.