A C Godliman

Ethelstow

Ethelstow was a small fishing community situated between Pagham and Church Norton in West Sussex

In October 1837 it suffered a major tragedy when an unexpected storm sunk eight of the tiny hamlets nine open fishing boats, killing forty-one men (over half the working male population). Although some bodies eventually washed ashore in various locations west of Ethelstow – crew from the boat that sank closest to land – thirty-six were never recovered.

A memorial to these men was later erected in the centre of Ethelstow in early 1839, largely funded by residents of Pagham and Chichester. It was inscribed with the names of the unrecovered men along with a local proverb:

“Our lost shall return in the bellies of fish”

With so many of the male population gone, many residents were forced to seek financial refuge in larger nearby towns, and by the 1850’s the hamlet was all but abandoned, finally disappearing from maps of the area in 1865.

One former resident writing at the time made reference to what the hamlets demise meant for the memorial’s inscription.

“It does not matter by which hand, or along which coast, as long as there remain fish in the sea, the men will be carried ashore.”

For the next century the memorial remained the only remnant of Ethelstow still standing. However, with each year coastal erosion was taking it closer and closer to the waters edge, until finally in the 1970’s it too was lost to the sea.

5 months ago - 1

My short film Nymph narrated by James Casey.

6 months ago - 2

illustration video for a short story:

All Roads

I am lost.
I was only walking in the woods – not exploring – and it was only a moment, cutting one corner off the established path, across a trickle of a stream to avoid an incline and… Maybe if had retraced my steps right at that moment I would have found my way back, but why would I? It’s a wood, you can lose your way but you can’t actually get lost, as all roads lead to Rome, all woodland trails loop back to the car park. All except this one it turned out, this one went somewhere else. I walked on, following the new path strictly, confident I would find some exit that way even it wasn’t quite the one I had started out from.
There was no exit though, no point where the trees even thinned, in fact as I progressed they seemed to grow thicker. I knew the wood well enough and that it wasn’t this dense or large, but I also knew where I had driven to, where I should be, so instead of turning back I simply shrugged it off, kept following the path.
I grew tired, then exhausted and then pained from all the walking, and the trees just grew thicker and tighter. First so tight they seemed to form walls and then so tight they definitely did. Further on these walls flattened and smoothed and were shaped into great wooden buildings. As the trees closed in the trails widened, straightened, hardened, became roads between the wooden towers, became a town filled with strangers, became a city filled with strange sounds.
I no longer know where I am, or even where I should be. I am lost and however far I follow the roads I never get to Rome.