I got to thinking the other day that hunting and fishing are a religion. You feel it, your hunting and fishing, deep in your bones. It is your conviction. It has grabbed you on an emotional basis, as well as on a logical one. We are the ones genuinely concerned about the countryside, because, on a logical basis, our religion depends upon it, our continuing journey through life as hunters and fisherpersons.

And disciples? We have many, real people who speak the truth, backed by science. We have the most powerful need and desire, which is to eat, more powerful than later day religions, and is the basis for our venture into the field. What a comforting religion ours is. Here’s wishing you a bountiful harvest of both fish and game.

Speaking of fishing, it has been a good year, but with some days that were filled with frustration. Take that day in November, a particularly nice day, weather-wise. It was almost a repeat of the week before, when I took my six limit. But today all I got was a half-hearted take, with the fish coming off immediately. I still can’t think why. Were they so selective that they wouldn’t have anything I was offering, and there was plenty of variety. Oh well, why worry about the failures, when there were so many successes to remember?

I have thought about failure, about losing a fish, about missing a pheasant, which causes more concern than would actually be warranted. Do you get that feeling of despair when that rabbit you thought was yours keeps going? I get it, and I’ve thought about it. It seems to me that it is a primitive reaction, in which the loss is a very real one, because now there will be less to eat, or nothing at all. The anxiety of then, transfers itself to now.

I also got a hook in my hand. I’m pretty good at getting them out, providing I can reach it. Many a time you are in need of three hands, or just somebody else around who has a spare one. I didn’t. I was in a boat, without anyone else around. I tied some line around the bend of the hook, but didn’t have that extra one for holding down the eye. Instead, I forced the eye against my chest, and jerked the line around the bend. The line came shooting out of my flesh, without any noticeable pain to speak of, and I resumed fishing, very successfully, I might add.

On a very sad note, we lost Dr Alan Miles. He was usually there on a Saturday, and he almost always took his fish. What are you using? I would ask, struggling. Most of the time the answer would come back, Classic FM, or the very successful Welsh fly, whose name I can’t pronounce, and don’t know how to spell, on which everybody in the land enjoys great success. Except me. Dr Alan gave me a couple of these flies, but on my line they didn’t work. Now he will be here for eternity, fishing in good weather and bad. But he won’t be alone, since a number of others before him have decided to stay on. Does it not give you a feeling of holiness, of the sacredness of this place, of waters in which we have taken fish, will go on into eternity.

We were all delighted by the news that Keith Howman, Jean’s husband, was awarded an OBE, for his efforts in conservation. He certainly deserved it. His work world-wide in the pheasant domain made him a well-known figure wherever he went. I was particularly impressed when during the bad years of the Cold War, the Howmans had members of the Chinese delegation staying in their home, refusing to be intimidated by a British Government who thought it might not be such a good idea to have "the enemy," as house guests.

Keith is a Springer man. He works hard at training his gun-dogs, and was a bit annoyed with me when I found it hard to resist scratching Cappa’s tummy when she’d come over to say hello (particularly during training sessions – but you know Springers). Standing fishing on the shore of the lake, a mallard, flying low, came shooting past, in an obvious panic. Cappa appeared a short time later, a look of complete innocence on her face, saying, in effect, That duck didn’t have anything to do with me. Then Keith came on to the scene. "The minute I take my eyes off that dog," he said, "she disappears."

Cappa, seeing Nedra, would come over to her for a cuddle. Nedra would explain to Cappa where I was, and Cappa would come running over. We had a very special relationship. Then one day, when Cappa was very old, she shuffled over to Nedra, who told her where I was. But she never made it over. I wished I could have said good bye.

Also deserving of an OBE is Jean Howman herself, who has created a place where so many have decided to stay on permanently. Her efforts are without end, her struggle with nature is constant, but completely fearless, she looks Mother Nature square in the face, and explains that she will win. And she does too. Sometimes Mother Nature is generous, and she gives generously, but much of the time she laughs as she inflicts pain. Trout don’t thrive in warm water. When it hits eighty degrees, the trout turn over and die. Jean takes it in her stride. She has created paradise. She won’t let anything take it away.