My name is Martin Donovan, although everyone has always called me ‘Donny’ except my wife, who calls me all manner of names! I was lucky enough to be born in Hampshire, on the banks of what some say is the most famous trout stream in the world – the River Test – and have spent much of my life looking after it as a river keeper. I’ve been working on the top of the river at Whitchurch for around 13 years, and before that I was at Nursling for about the same length of time. Earlier still, I spent about 10 years helping Ron Holloway on the River Itchen at Martyr Worthy. So as you can imagine, for most of my life I have been somewhat… damp.

My mum and dad always told me that they found me as a new-born under some purple comfrey on the riverbank, so for much of my early youth I actually thought that I was born in the Test! I lived in Testwood near the Lower Test Nature Reserve, and with a playground like that on my doorstep I was nearly always helping, hindering, or running from river keepers. There was plenty of opportunity for a mischievous nipper to mess about on the water and in the reedbeds – a noble pastime that I still practice to this day.

Wherever us kids were on the nature reserve, we were never more than a couple of minutes from the river, and hence much of our time was spent in water-based adventure. Much of that activity took place on a small stream that we regarded as our own; it spurred off the main river at the Testwood fishing beat and ran across the reed marshes to re-join the Test at the bottom of the Nursling fishing beat, where it then continued downstream into the estuary.

Our stream was full of great swathes of ranunculus that shimmered over beautiful white gravel. Its depth varied from six inches on the long gravelly runs to six or seven feet in the pools. In those glorious, seemingly never-ending summers, the water was always crystal clear. It never crossed our minds that we shouldn’t drink gallons of it, and we never suffered any sickness – except webbed feet, perhaps. We would swim, build dens on the bank, and very occasionally fish. I remember catching trout, chub, and a few other coarse fish that we didn’t recognise. We never saw any salmon or sea trout, although they obviously must have been there.

At the top end of our stream there were old sluice gates known as ‘The Wire House Hatches’, which controlled the flow of water from the river onto the meadows. They had obviously not been in regular use for many years, although there was still a good flow going underneath them. The pool that had formed immediately downstream of the sluice gates was the deepest part of our stream – probably about 10 feet – and this was where most of the action took place. Huge willow trees and alders, fringes of yellow iris and kingcups, lush grassy banks around crystal-clear water; it was a scene that a celebrity garden designer could only dream of.

This was the ultimate natural swimming pool, and we always expected to see Johnny Weissmuller swan dive from the trees with a knife clamped between his teeth. As such, it became affectionately known as ‘Tarzan's pool’, and every launch into it was accompanied by a screaming version of his signature tune. We would dive in and go with the flow to the end of the stream, tumbling through great beds of green river weed in the gravelly shallows. It was complete paradise, and undoubtedly where my love for moving water was embedded into me.

Pictured below (click to enlarge): Donny by the River Test during his childhood; "Tarzan's Pool" in April 2022.

In all the time that we treated the stream as our own, we were never once bothered by anyone, nor asked why we were there. I don’t remember seeing fishermen, and always imagined our stream to be a no man’s land between the famous Testwood and Nursling fishing beats. We would play on the main river over the winter months, but come the end of February we knew that the ‘RRs’ would turn up and we’d voluntarily migrate into our unfished waters. Back in the day these were Rolls-Royces, but nowadays they would likely be Range Rovers.

We quite often saw fishermen on the main river, which was only a few yards away, but there was an unwritten rule that we would keep away from their patch. Besides, there were tweed clad people there with ridiculously long rods and an alarming fishing style. They would throw great lengths of line back and forth, always ending up in the trees. There was almost continuous swearing and the inevitable cheesed off javelin throw into the sedge with the long rod. Then, after a smoke, the embarrassed retrieval.

The fishermen rarely ventured over to our stream, but occasionally one would catch sight of us and wander by. Most fishermen like to see kids on the river, providing they’re behaving themselves and not getting in the way. I think most of them relate to playing in water as children. All the visiting fishermen were interested in our stream, but they must have sensed a feeling of intrusion since none ever cast a fly. They all behaved awkwardly as if they were uninvited guests – which to us, of course, they were.

I can’t really remember the last time that we fished the stream, or took our final go with the flow run, but we reached that one summer holiday when mopeds and girls became slightly more alluring than even our piece of precious water. I’m sure that silver memories from our youth become golden upon recollection, and things were never quite as good as we once believed. But there is no doubting the decline that I’ve seen over a lifetime of working on the beautiful River Test, and my benchmark was set early on by our stream.

Pictured below (click to enlarge): A fishing beat on the River Test; Donny on a boat on the lower River Test.

It was this stream that sparked my love for moving water and taught me how to do one of the best Tarzan impersonations you’ll ever hear. But it doubtless also influenced my career as a river keeper; it was the perfect stretch of chalk stream, and something I have since tried to replicate. Although I didn’t think about it at the time, I’ve realised that it massively shaped the way in which I try to keep my beat, and my thoughts on chalk stream management in general: let the river teach us.

I never saw river keepers in our stream, and the bank was free from groynes or platforms. It was, in essence, a natural wild stream with only the merest hint of management. No manicured paths or perfectly level fringes, just the occasional weed cut to keep the level down and the stream within the banks. Great bleached willows and alders were left in the channel when they fell, with no panic to winch them out. Reeds grew as they wanted, and all the fringes were left as cover for warblers, wrens, and trout fry alike.

Some people believe that the way to manage these rivers is to do very little and let nature take care of itself. That must sound like the perfect answer to those who have never worked or fished on one, but we must remember that the chalk streams are almost entirely man-made and would quickly return to swampy marshes if left completely to their own devices. The conundrum has always been that neither doing too little, nor doing too much, is an option.

Many say the Test is the most fabled trout stream of all – mired in traditional tales, endless writings, and exalted, exaggerated mystery. But to me, it’s just the river I jumped in as a kid, worked in as a man, consistently defended like a jealous boyfriend, and finally looked after like an elderly parent. Not all old ways are good, nor mysteries glorious. As a river keeper with chalk stream water running through my veins, perhaps I have a slight guilt about not challenging damaging traditions or exposing these flaws and concerns a little more robustly.

Pictured below (click to enlarge): Donny in the source of the River Test; the River Test near its mouth in Southampton.

Something I’ve always wanted to do was to walk the length of the river along its banks. This was reinforced by the passing of my great friend and mentor, Nursling river-keeping legend Vic Foot. We fished and worked on many Test beats together, from the very top to the very bottom. At times, Vic would say that we must have seen them all. When he died aged 94, having worked as a keeper for 56 years, it intrigued – and slightly bothered – me that, even after our lifetimes on the Test, we had actually seen only a tiny percentage.

I decided to finally embark on a walk from the Test’s source to the sea, following as closely as possible to the riverbanks, to raise money for Naomi House Children’s Hospice. Perhaps I’m beginning to feel my age and was wondering if an amble down something so important to me might help explain what I’ve been doing for the last 60 years. Even if it was a late-life crisis, this is my river, and this walk was a ‘Test’ of both our characters. I wrongly assumed that it would be relatively easy, and subsequently underestimated every single requirement.

As the crow flies, I had about 45 miles to walk. Being an expert on the way rivers work, and knowing that the Test falls about 300 feet, I was confident I’d be walking mostly downhill. I know nearly all the river keepers, and could ask permission from the many large estates, riparian owners, mill owners, private owners, and fishing syndicates. I could call in a few favours, sleep in fishing huts, raise money, and do something that might not have been done before. What could possibly go wrong?

One of the first things I did was talk with the Test and Itchen Association. We came up with a rough idea of where I’d go and whose land I’d need to walk through. It quickly became apparent that a lot more planning was required than I initially thought, and I ended up with a list of over 70 people that I needed permission from. My initial picture of a casual saunter was as far from reality as possible.

Pictured below (click to enlarge): Donny with another River Keeper during his River Test walk; Donny in a boat on the River Test with another River Keeper.

The next change in plans came from talking to a couple whose house backs onto my beat in Whitchurch – Jane and Andy Fenning. Jane was a BBC TV director for over 30 years, and she insisted that I would regret not recording the walk in some way. My only plan had been to take selfies with all the river keepers! The Test is possibly the most private river in the world, so landowner privacy was utmost in my thoughts; being followed by a camera crew was impossible. Besides, according to my wife, I have a voice for writing and a face for radio.

After much discussion, and advice carefully listened to, I was fitted with a permanently running GoPro camera. I carried a 360°camera on a stick, which I could keep in my pocket and use as required. I was also occasionally filmed from public land, or via a drone, by the fourth member of the team: BBC cameraman Steve Shearn. According to my grandchildren I am a ‘techno peasant’, so expertise in the filming department was vitally important. Steve supplied and fitted the equipment, as well as attempting to teach me how to use it all. Other than this, I carried only a rucksack containing a sleeping bag, spare socks, and a toothbrush.

There were so many highlights on my walk. Meeting all the keepers was wonderful, and seeing the work being done to rewild the river was heartening. I raised nearly £17,000 for charity and have finally seen the whole of this beautiful river from source to sea. On the last day, I spent a few sentimental, sobering hours back at Tarzan’s Pool – my first return in nearly 50 years. I have written the whole adventure up, and the many hours of footage will hopefully be turned into watchable content. No need to panic just yet though, David Attenborough!

The Test is an amazing river system, but one under immense pressure. Where my walk started, the river is clear and innocent, but its service begins at a mill just a few miles away. It has been pushed, pulled, drained, flooded, bullied, and diverted thousands of times over hundreds of years. It no longer finds its own way to the sea, but goes the way that most benefits man – usually to its detriment. While we should never forget its past as a ‘working river’, now is the time for us to consider what the Test wants, rather than what we want from it.

Cherishing our chalk streams

Huge thanks to Donny for sharing this amazing story! You can watch a short film about his source-to-sea walk on YouTube.

If you share Donny's passion for the River Test, why not explore its upper reaches with the Watercress and Winterbournes scheme?

We're always looking for people kind enough to share their personal stories about our chalk streams. You can read more wonderful stories, or share your own, through the Tales from the Riverbank project.