I grew up in Overton, close to the Upper Test. Like many local families, mine was sustained by the chalk stream: my great grandfather was the chief electrical engineer at Portals paper mill, as was my grandad and then my dad. Historically one of the major employers in the area, the firm has produced banknotes for the Bank of England at sites along the Upper Test since the early 18th century.

We all remember the long summer holidays of our childhood, and mine inevitably revolved around the water. As youngsters, my brother and I would paddle in the ankle-deep water of the disused cress beds, chasing sticklebacks and lifting the larger stones to discover the occasional bullhead hiding beneath.

Further down the lane, a second bridge crossed the stream itself. It remains a picture postcard setting: a former corn mill, upstream of a rambling thatch, with a view framed by weeping willow. We paddled and played here too, shuffling along the bough of the poor old sycamore where it arched over the water.

As teenagers, wild paddling became wild swimming, we’d hang out on the stream bank and swim in the deeper weirs. Today wild swimming has become wild wading, but the childhood thrill of being in that ‘gin-clear’ clear water hasn’t changed. What has changed is my attire, in pursuit of my adulthood pastime: streamlarking.

Pictured below (click to expand): A 'Hamilton' torpedo-shaped mineral water bottle (late 19th century) / 'Dr Hommel's Haematogen', a late 19th century quack cure (still sealed with contents).

Aqua glass was the standard colour for Victorian household glass, and it is something to behold in the water. The varying iron content in the sand used in the glass mix (combined with the level of oxygen available to create the flame) resulted in an array of beautiful blue-green hues. It was only after World War I that clear glass bottles became the norm, as advances in the bottle-making process allowed them to be made quickly and cheaply for the mass market.

Seeing a sliver of aqua glass peeking out of the gravel is exciting: you know it will be old and beautiful precisely because it was hand-blown into moulds and no two bottles will ever be the same. I have been lucky to discover many types, including fizzy drinks bottles like the pointy ended ‘Hamilton’ (which had to be stored on their sides to stop the cork from shrinking) and the ingenious design famously patented by Hiram Codd in the 1870s, which used a marble in the bottle neck to seal the fizz under pressure.

Bottles from local companies are always favourites to find. Some were highly successful in their day, and much can be learned about these firms through their packaging – gone, but not forgotten. There are also the household bottles, such as the sauces and pickles, that brought exciting flavours from across the Empire to enliven bland British fayre and pep up riverside picnics.

Quack cures and remedies were popular purchases, and these turn up in rivers occasionally too. In the 19th century sickness was commonplace, diseases were little understood and few could afford to see a doctor. Unscrupulous vendors cashed in on a lucrative market that was wholly unregulated.

Many of these cure-alls were laced with poisonous ingredients and addictive opiates, meaning they did more harm than good. Then there were actual poisons, their fancily shaped bottles coloured in emerald green, amber, or cobalt blue, with tactile markings designed to warn by touch of their potentially deadly contents.

Pictured below (click to expand): A 'Not to be Taken' hexagonal poison bottle (with some contents) / River found 'coffin' poison bottles (early 20th century).

I love all old glass, but I always go to the water in the hope of finding an antique ink bottle. These often crudely made bottles are so characteristic of pre-machine age packaging, and held the letters, lists, and postcards of another age in liquid form. Produced in their millions, they tell the story of 19th century societal reform, a response to a demand for affordable ink at a time when literacy was no longer just for the affluent.

This was the age of the ‘penny ink’, but selling small bottles for this price required them to be made cheaply in large quantities. They were blown, by hand, into a two-part mould, after which the blow pipe was simply snapped off. The resulting sharp top, known as a ‘burst lip’, was then corked and sealed with wax for sale.

For me, the beauty of these bottles lies in their very cheapness, the glass is often wonderfully flawed and full of air bubbles caused by inferior production techniques and poor-quality ingredients. Spotting one of these enigmatic little bottles is always a treat, with a mind-boggling array of bottle types produced way back when, this has become the collecting dream for me.

Pictured below (click to expand): A penny ink bottle straight from the water / River found penny ink bottles and a penny lamp.

It’s not just glass which shows itself, but other kinds of artefact too. In the summer of 2020, the stream gave me an 18-carat gold wristwatch once sold by Garrard, the famous royal jeweller. It was exactly 100 years old, and I couldn’t believe it: so early, and so beautiful. It was my first gold find, but more than that it was a treasure frozen in time… or so I thought.

After sharing the watch on my Instagram page, a generous watchmaker named Dominic Chapman contacted me to offer his assistance in bringing my little found timepiece back to life. Dominic painstakingly restored the watch to full working order, and I continue to both treasure and wear it, but never near water.

I’m thrilled to have been granted access to explore the waters around the historic Whitchurch Silk Mill, where the chalk stream wraps around the original Georgian building. I’m finding some interesting artefacts relating to the mill and its workers, as well as a wider context of human activity going back into the mists of time. So far, these include Georgian and Victorian bottles; crockery and toys; likely ancient (possibly Roman) beads; and a tiny, worked flint blade dating from the Neolithic or Early Bronze age.

Pictured below (click to expand): Garrard 18ct gold watch, as found / A flatlay of smaller finds, including the restored Garrard watch and a folding silver fruit set.

About five years ago, I started to share my finds and research on Instagram as @myordinarytreasure. The name seemed appropriate, as these are mostly ‘ordinary’ things that connect us with the past in a very real and relatable way. This has become my online finding diary, research journal, and virtual museum.

Social media has proven an excellent way to reach a wide and varied audience, as well as connect with like-minded folk from far and wide. It has been a revelation to discover a network of other ‘searchers’ doing similar things around the world. From bottle diggers and scuba divers to metal detectorists and mudlarkers, I have learned so much from this vibrant online community. More recently, I created a TikTok account for sharing videos which focus on these chalk stream settings just as much as my finds.

Researching the finds – learning about their history, use, and context – can be as rewarding and exciting as finding the objects themselves. I once spotted a very standard-looking pen knife, which I picked up without too much thought; these knives, sometimes dropped by fishermen, are not unusual finds. Removing rusty or plastic modern rubbish has become an integral part of what I do. But this knife was small and, though almost completely covered in rust and concretion, had just a glint of mother of pearl.

After cleaning the item with electrolysis, I discovered that it wasn’t a pen knife at all but a late Victorian fruit set: a detachable, folding knife and fork in hallmarked sterling silver. The set is beautifully made with an ingenious patented interlocking design. Silver was traditionally chosen because it will not react with the acids in fruit.

I have since learned that these knives were popularised in the Georgian era, as they allowed you to slice a pear or apple before more easily consuming it; this makes sense when you think about the poor state of people’s teeth at this time. This leads us on to thinking about the history of English dentistry… but the story of early dentures is definitely a topic for another day. And yes: false teeth sometimes crop up in rivers too!

If you’d like to try your hand at exploring the heritage in and around the streams, there are a few things you need to consider. The first is simple: safety first! Please remember that being in any body of water can be dangerous. Streams that appear shallow can be deep and fast moving, and it is easy to lose your footing, especially when you get cold. Always know your limits, stay shallow, and don’t go out alone.

Secondly, be aware that while the chalk streams are wonderfully clear, their water is often fast-moving and this blurs the view of what is beneath the surface. A homemade viewing bucket with clear plastic seated into the base provides a window into the water. Peer through it to immerse yourself in searching the bed and marvelling at the underwater world below.

Thirdly, ensure you keep warm. I don’t paddle barefoot these days: chest waders, arm coverings, and neoprene gloves are essential to continuing my search all year round. The spring-fed waters remain cool even in summer, and in the colder months I’ll change to waterproof shoulder-length gloves with a second pair of woolly gloves inside. Sometimes, the only thing that stops the search is freezing fingers!

Finally, no matter where you go, always take care to avoid trespassing. Before venturing onto any private land, you need to ensure you get permission from the landowner. You may want to report your finds to the Portable Antiquities Scheme. There is also additional information available online about metal detecting and mudlarking by the River Thames.

Cherishing our chalk streams

Our thanks to Jane for sharing her story - do check out her social media for more fascinating finds! If you're a landowner with a stretch of chalk stream, and are potentially interested in Jane streamlarking there, please contact us at winterbournes@hiwwt.org.uk. 

If you share Jane's passion for our precious chalk streams, you can explore and support them through the Watercress and Winterbournes scheme. We're always looking for people who are kind enough to share their personal experiences of our local chalk streams. You can read more wonderful stories, or share your own, through the Tales from the Riverbank project.