We fished our own way

No rods, nor gear. Catch a hold of strands of horse hair. Plait them. Loop them at the end like a hang mans noose and hope for the best.

We would go to the river. It was not a river but a tributary yet we called it the Spring. And wait. There all the boys watching the waters teaming with fish. Sprats. Lots of them. You would aim the eye of the noose at one. Lower it in to the water and hope for the best. They would beat you. Just as you thought you had one away with it.

We would eat what we caught if we caught any. They were quicker than us. The boys would catch them . The girls would cook them.

We ate eels too.

Some times you would find one in the cattle trough. Even though dead, you had lobbed off the heads and tail it would be jigging on the pan. They would make their way up the fields the odd time. Wriggling they were.