Mud on the Tongue

What the Chalk Stream Won’t Say

‘Mum, what’s a chalk stream?’

You tell your seven year old: a river which ran cold and clear from the bones of England, which held trout which could live nowhere else. Fish which tasted of light and stone and secrets filtered through centuries.

They wrinkle their nose, point to the grey water, sluggish and snagged with bottles, and ask: ‘Is this it?’

And you say yes. Because that is what you were taught to say. Because silence is now an heirloom, passed down like a set of plates no one dares to use.

Later, you go out for lunch - one of those places with artisan bread and pickled things in jars - and they tell their friends, ‘We had chalk stream trout. It came with flowers on it. It was really pretty.’

They say it with wonder. You smile. You do not tell them the fish was raised in a tank, that it never knew current, never flicked its body between shadow and gravel, and never rose to a mayfly’s fall. You do not say the flowers were there to distract from what was missing.

The river did not ask to be loved. It moved with the steady patience of stone - filtered through chalk older than nations, made from oceans which forgot themselves. It passed beneath footbridges, through cow-worn meadows, and under the open hands of children who never thought to name it. It performed no miracles. It asked for no language. It simply was.

In its clarity, a trout came into being. Not as a symbol, or stock, or a signature dish. But as life. Formed by gravel, light, and time, its muscles sharpened by flow, its skin mottled red and black like a story only water could write. Its flesh tasted of cress, iron, and cold breath. It belonged to the river as breath belongs to a song.

Now, the river is requisitioned. It is drawn and returned, warmed, dulled, and strained through pens. It raises fish bred not for wildness but for compliance. They are efficient. Uniform. Easy to fillet. These fish carry the name; they do not carry the place.

The child is older now. They bring you a school project - carefully printed, full of maps and pride.

‘We’ve got most of the chalk streams in the world,’ they say. ‘85% percent. There are only 260 left.’

They frown. ‘But they don’t look like that in real life. Why not?’

You nod. You say it’s complicated.

You do not say that only 14% of English rivers are healthy. Nor do you admit that in 2023, sewage was released into rivers for 3.6 million hours - equivalent to 411 years of uninterrupted filth. You do not say the Environment Agency described this as ‘broadly stable’, as if slow death were a kind of success.

You do not tell them what the trout have swallowed. The Test and the Itchen now carry more than 120 pollutants: pesticides, hormones, painkillers, antidepressants, microplastics and diesel residue. Some are monitored. Most are not. All persist.

Wild trout are now found in just 38% of monitored chalk streams. Salmon return to fewer than 12%. The ghosts are stocked to keep up appearances. They look right on the plate. But the river does not know them.

The teenager comes back from the school trip, face stormed over - not speaking, but louder than ever.

‘We went to the Hogsmill,’ they say. ‘It smelled like toilets. There were sanitary pads in the trees.’

You try to explain what a ‘discharge event’ is. You say it’s legal.

You do not say that Millais once painted Ophelia in those same waters, her palms open, her hair drifting like algae in bloom. The river which once held art now holds our waste.

They blink and ask: ‘Why would we let that happen?’

And you have no answer which does not condemn you.

The chefs say ‘chalk stream trout’ with pride. They plate it on ceramics rough as roof tiles, scatter micro herbs like confetti at a tasteful funeral, and trace a thread of elderflower beurre blanc across the flesh as if trying to rewrite its past. They speak of sustainability. Of sourcing. Of narrative. Of a journey - a word they savour - while serving fish which were never allowed one. But the river is not a story. It is not garnish. It is not a flourish on a wine list. It is a body, and it is dying.

This is not Eden’s fall. It is a menu choice. A policy preference. A spreadsheet rounding error. The river’s clarity has become a mirror - and what it reflects is not innocence lost, but sold. Branded. Sauced. And served.

Years pass. The child learns to read between the lines. They see the labels. They see the silences. They walk by the water and realise the movement is just that - movement. Not meaning. The fish are gone. The light has changed. The river still runs, but no longer carries the lives it once knew.

And now, the child is you.

You were offered a river which sang. You accepted one which hums faintly behind flood defences. You were offered fish which tasted of memory. You bought fish which taste of nothing but distance. You were offered a miracle. You settled for a dish with edible flowers.

But somewhere, somehow, the river remembers. It remembers the flash of a trout returning. The flick of a tail beneath alder shade. The ache of current against stone.

Listen - while it still speaks. Speak - while it still listens. And choose - while there is still anything left to choose.

The river is writing your children’s future in its failing flow. What story will you let it tell?