There’s something about Hampshire’s rivers that gets under your skin—kinda like the way the mist clings to the Test at dawn, or how the Itchen’s currents whisper secrets to anyone patient enough to listen. Honestly, if you’ve ever stood knee-deep in one of these chalkstreams, rod in hand, you know what I mean. It’s not just fishing; it’s like stepping into a living piece of history.

Izaak Walton? Yeah, he’s the chap buried up in Winchester Cathedral, the one who wrote The Compleat Angler back in 1653. Funny how a book that old still feels like gospel to us. And then there’s Halford, tinkering away on the Test in the 1800s, turning dry fly fishing into an art form. Just down the road, George Skues was busy cracking the code on nymphing over on the Itchen. You can almost picture ’em, can’t you? Wading through the same stretches we do now, figuring it all out.

Stockbridge—now there’s a place that hasn’t lost its soul. Wander through on an autumn morning, the air crisp enough to bite, and you’ll see what I mean. The mist rolls off the water meadows, the old shopfronts glow in the weak sunlight, and before you know it, you’re drawn to the river like a mayfly to the surface. It’s impossible not to feel it.

The Test… God, where do you even start? It’s the queen of chalkstreams, no question. Thirty-nine miles of pure magic, twisting through Hampshire like a silver thread. Starts small up near Ashe, just a trickle really, but give it time—the Bourne, the Dever, the Anton, they all join in, and suddenly you’ve got this braided masterpiece of carriers and mill leats and main channels. Down by Stockbridge, it’s wide enough to make your casting arm ache, and by the time it hits Romsey, it’s a proper river, single-minded and strong.

And the Itchen? Don’t let anyone tell you it’s second-best. It’s got its own rhythm, its own stories. Rises near New Alresford, gathers up the Alre and the Candover Brook, and then—well, it’s like it knows it’s something special. Seven miles of those ancient water meadows, past Winchester’s cathedral shadows, all the way down to Southampton where the salt finally creeps in. The fishing? Dry fly or nymph, take your pick. The trout here don’t suffer fools, but when you hook one… yeah, that’s the stuff.

Chalkstreams are alive, you know? Not just the fish—the way the light dances on the gravel, the smell of wet earth and crushed mint, the sound of a rise breaking the stillness. It’s romantic as hell, and if that doesn’t get you, well, maybe you’re reading the wrong book.

Oh, and the grayling? Sneaky devils, but worth every missed strike. But that’s a story for another day.