If you grew up in Canada or the UK during a certain era, the mention of a hamster in a tiny rowboat probably triggers an immediate, visceral sense of nostalgia. We aren't talking about CGI. There were no green screens. Just a real, remarkably calm Syrian hamster named Hammy, navigating a river in a hollowed-out piece of wood. It was called Once Upon a Hamster (or Tales of the Riverbank if you’re across the pond), and honestly, looking back at it now, the show is kind of a miracle of patience and practical filmmaking.
It’s easy to dismiss it as just another "cute animal show." But that misses why it worked.
The series didn't rely on the high-octane chaos of modern children's programming. Instead, it leaned into a slow, rhythmic storytelling style that treated the lives of Hammy, GP the Guinea Pig, and Martha the Mouse with a strange sort of dignity. It was wholesome, sure, but it was also technically fascinating.
The Man Behind the Riverbank
Paul Sutherland wasn't just a narrator; he was the soul of the project. Alongside Dave Ellison, he created something that felt less like a television production and more like a captured glimpse into a secret world. They started this journey back in the 1960s. Think about that for a second. Before the digital revolution, before easy editing, they were out there on the banks of the Speed River in Guelph, Ontario, waiting for a guinea pig to look in the right direction.
It took forever.
Filming live animals—especially rodents with the attention span of, well, rodents—requires a level of Zen that most modern directors couldn't stomach. They didn't "train" the hamsters in the traditional sense. They mostly just set up these incredibly detailed, miniature sets and waited for the animals to explore. If Hammy decided he wanted to sniff a tiny grandfather clock for twenty minutes instead of "talking" to GP, the crew just had to sit there and wait.
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Why the 1990s Revival Hit Different
While the show started in black and white, many of us remember the 1990s revival, often titled Once Upon a Hamster. This version brought the Riverbank into full color, and the production value was surprisingly high for what it was. The sets were masterpieces of miniature engineering. You had tiny houses with working lights, little kitchens, and of course, the iconic diving bell and motorboats.
The genius of the show was the voice acting. Paul Sutherland voiced almost everyone. He gave Hammy a sort of naive, adventurous optimism, while GP (the Guinea Pig) was the slightly pompous, intellectual tinkerer who was always building something that might—or might not—work. Martha the Mouse was the voice of reason. It was a classic character dynamic, just... with fur.
The Ethical Question: How Did They Get Them to Do That?
In 2026, we’re rightfully sensitive about animal welfare in entertainment. People often ask: "Was Hammy okay?" "Were they forced into those boats?"
Honestly, the reality is much more mundane than people imagine. The animals were pampered pets. The "boats" and "planes" were usually floating or stationary platforms that the animals were placed on for short bursts. The "rowing" motion was often a clever bit of off-camera mechanical trickery or simply the animal moving its paws. There was no evidence of distress because a stressed hamster doesn't wash its face or eat seeds—and Hammy was constantly doing both.
They used multiple "Hammy" actors over the years, obviously. Syrian hamsters only live about two to three years. But the continuity was seamless because, to a five-year-old, Hammy was eternal.
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The Technical Weirdness of the Riverbank
The scale was everything. To make a hamster look like a protagonist, the camera had to be at eye level. This meant the "grass" was often just small weeds, and the "trees" were twigs. The creators used wide-angle lenses to create a sense of scope. When you see Hammy looking out over the river, it genuinely looks like a vast, unexplored frontier.
- The boats were often pulled by invisible fishing lines.
- The "dialogue" was timed to whenever the hamster happened to twitch its nose or chew.
- The lighting had to be bright enough for film but cool enough not to bake the stars.
It was a lo-fi masterpiece.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Show
There’s a common misconception that the show was just "playing with pets." That’s a massive understatement of the craft involved. The scripts were actually quite witty. They dealt with themes of friendship, the fear of the unknown, and the frustration of a project going wrong. GP’s inventions usually failed in ways that taught kids about resilience without being "preachy."
Also, people often confuse the different versions. You have the original 1960s Tales of the Riverbank, the 1970s Hammy Hamster, and the 90s Once Upon a Hamster. While they share the same DNA and creators, the 90s version is the one that solidified the "Hammy" mythos for the millennial generation. It was syndicated globally, reaching kids who had no idea they were watching a small-budget Canadian production filmed near a river in Ontario.
Why We Still Care
We live in an era of hyper-saturated, AI-generated content. You can prompt a computer to show you a "hamster in a tuxedo flying a spaceship," and it’ll give you a perfect, soulless image in three seconds.
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There’s no struggle in that.
Once Upon a Hamster matters because you can feel the struggle. You can feel the patience of the cameraman. You can see the real texture of the hamster's fur and the way the water actually ripples around the tiny boat. It’s authentic. There’s a certain "clunkiness" to it that feels human and warm.
The show reminds us of a time when children’s television wasn't trying to sell us a thousand plastic toys or capture our data. It was just trying to tell a story about a hamster who wanted to see what was around the next bend in the river.
How to Revisit the Riverbank Today
If you're looking to dive back into this world, you have to be a bit of a detective.
- Check Official Archives: Some episodes have been preserved on YouTube by the rights holders or fans, though the quality varies wildly depending on whether it was ripped from an old VHS or a broadcast master.
- Look for the 1995 Series: This is the peak "Once Upon a Hamster" experience with the best production values and Paul Sutherland’s most polished narration.
- Physical Media: Occasionally, old DVDs pop up on eBay. If you find a "Hammy Hamster" collection, grab it. They aren't making more of these.
- Appreciate the Score: Don't ignore the music. The jaunty, acoustic themes are a huge part of why the show feels so cozy.
The legacy of the show lives on in the "slow TV" movement. It was the original chill-out content before "lo-fi beats to study to" was even a thought. It taught a generation to look at the small things—the bugs, the weeds, the quiet corners of a river—and imagine there was a whole world happening just out of sight. That’s a pretty great gift to give a kid.
The next time you’re feeling overwhelmed by the speed of 2026, find a clip of Hammy in his motorboat. Watch him twitch his nose. Realize that it took a team of humans months of sitting in the mud just to capture that one moment of peace. It’s worth the watch.
Actionable Insights for Fans and Collectors
- Identify the Version: Before buying any memorabilia, check if it’s the 60s, 70s, or 90s version, as the tone and voice acting change significantly.
- Support Archival Efforts: Follow creators and small production houses that specialize in "Lost Media" to help locate higher-quality masters of the Canadian episodes.
- Contextualize for Kids: If showing it to a new generation, explain that these are real animals. It changes how they perceive the "action" and helps them develop an appreciation for nature.