The Fisherman's Arms, Plymouth

"It's where the locals eat" said the bloke who ran the Plymouth guesthouse we stayed in ahead of a wedding down in Newquay. Plymouth, in places, is simply Bracknell-on-Sea. A 1950s/1960s urban apocalypse thanks to the friendly Mr Hitler.

We traipsed through the town and were happy to find some nicer scenery down by the sea, and then wandered back with foreboding to a shit housing estate that housed the Fisherman's Arms. Thankfully the inside was wonderfully modern but inviting and where I discovered St Austell's Trelawney bitter that accompanied me at many of the pubs throughout the trip.

Friendly barmaid gave us our menus and we had a charcuterie board to share - slathered with chorizo, bread, olives and what appeared to be a rose veal carpaccio. Mains were nothing short of enormous and impeccably cooked. The portion of mussels (cooked in cider and cream) was gargantuan. Really. Another platter of mixed fish on olive oil mash in a creamy sauce was wonderfully presented - and stupidly generous.

I went boring and had fish and chips. Yeah, shoot me down. But it was good: very, very good. Seriously thin, crispy batter, obviously fresh fish and some chunky, obviously multiply-cooked chips. The waitress asked me if I was vegetarian as the mushy peas came with bacon. Inspired. Smoky, mushy peas to go against the cod. Inspired. Did I say that already? Crap picture alert, I'll probably change it in due course to the prettier main courses the other folks had:



We almost went somewhere better-looking on the outside: apples and skins and all that. Great fishy start to the holiday. 8.