Archie Greenshields remembers some of his carefree days as a young boy. He was born in 1920 in Chichester where he lived with 7 siblings. Archie continues: -

When I was about 11 or 12 years old, I and two or three friends often decided during school holidays to go eel fishing at Fishbourne creek.

A very limited amount of equipment was needed for the expedition, just some newspaper and a packet of fish-hooks, which could be purchased from Russell Hilsdon's - a sports shop in South Street, Chichester. For a penny you could buy a packet of assorted hooks, from the very small to one of a huge size. The large hook was the only one that we were interested in.

Care would have to be taken in the clothes one wore for this trip, as it could be an extremely muddy operation and Mum would certainly not approve if I arrived home covered in it.

About a mile outside of Chichester going westwards, you turned left into Mill Lane, Fishbourne, the Pub called The Bull's Head stands on the corner. One walked by the side of a stream along this lane, and on other occasions with a home made net and a jam jar, fun could be had fishing for sticklebacks and minnows. But we were after bigger sport with much more exciting actions.

When the tide was out, and I don't believe any of us would actually be sure if it would be or not, the remains of an old Mill might be seen exposed above the mud flats of Fishbourne Creek. Depending on the state of the outgoing or incoming tide, a path led towards the pile of old stones that marked the site of the old mill. By treading carefully so that you kept your boots reasonably free from the black smelly mud, you searched to find a place to take your boots and socks off. The hunt for eels could then begin.
   
By turning over the black slimy stones, hopefully you would find the wriggling presence of a fair sized eel. A discovery of one would bring an excited shout and everyone would leave his or her own search to assist in the capture of the poor creature. It may seem cruel, but the only means of capturing the slimy writhing beasts, was by snaring them with the largest hook chosen from the penny packet, which was held by hand and hooked into the creature.

Placing the eels in the tin brought for our captures would not ensure captivity for long, unless a lid was immediately put into place, for they quickly wriggled free given the chance and found a means of escape. A method soon discovered was that if our captives were laid on a sheet of newspaper, it dramatically slowed down their escape.

Sooner or later a sufficient number were caught to justify the long walk home from Fishbourne, and it was time to clean up all the black mud stains from legs, feet and clothes. I do not ever recall taking any of the eels I caught back home for cooking, for it is very doubtful if they would have been appreciated, but the fun and excitement of our expeditions was ample reward.   

I visited Fishbourne and neighbouring Dell Quay on countless occasions in my childhood. The earliest occasion perhaps was when Aunt Flo and a number of her school friends took me, together perhaps with a brother or sister. We paddled in the stream that would have driven the mill, which was built to replace the crumbled ruin where we caught eels.

I can recall the happy shouts of laughter when somehow Flo slipped and sat down in the stream and afterwards had to discard her wet drawers. Even today she will remind you of this episode, so clearly indelible in both our minds.

Many of us lads from Tower Street made our way to the creeks by walking across the Westgate fields via Appledram Lane with its smelly sewage farm. There were two paths one could take to get there, either directly across the fields or by following the meandering River Lavant, which eventually reached Fishbourne and the sea. Either way was a great attraction, looking for the nests of moorhens, coots and even ducks. We were not often welcome on our explorations and would hear shouts coming from across one field or another from angry farmers.   

Once you had crossed over a pedestrian bridge which we knew as 'Jacob's Ladder', you were perhaps halfway to Chichester Harbour, which Fishbourne Creek formed part of. The sea would still be hidden from view because of the small defence system which prevented the complete flooding of the surrounding fields, so care had to be taken to keep to well marked paths, for the fields could be very boggy.

As you drew nearer to the raised path you might gain the first sight of the state of the tide, much more interesting if the tide was high, with many swans and sea birds floating and swimming on the calm, smooth waters. In those far off days, the small craft and yachts, which are so prevalent today, did not occupy so much of the sound. Dell Quay itself, which is perhaps a mile further on from Fishbourne Creek, did have a busier atmosphere. On one visit I remember an impressively large sailing barge with its tall masts moored at the quay head.

In 1937/38, my school friend, Stanley Dodman, moved with his father and Aunt to a small house in Mill Lane, Fishbourne. Stanley's Aunt had been housekeeper for Ebenezer Prior in Tower Street, whilst his father had been a gardener for a well-known landowner named Captain Spicer. Stanley's Dad used to cycle backwards and forwards to his work and it must have been a great help when Mr Dodman's employer built the small cottage for him.

Over the next two or three years I visited Stan at his home and walked the fields with their dog, a liver coloured spaniel, I think named 'Sally', that loved hunting and finding hedgehogs. Stan's father also kept a couple of geese that kept the front lawns closely cropped.

Eventually as time passed and with adolescence, these exciting episodes lost their attraction and fishing for minnows, sticklebacks and eels were forgotten. Except for one or two dips in the brackish waters under the sea wall at high tide during our last summer, before the start of the Second World War, we found less and less time to spend together.

I enlisted into the Army and moved from Chichester, consequently only meeting on furloughs. By the end of the war, Stanley and I had gone our separate ways and today, our paths rarely cross, but our friendship still endures.