Three Nights In Plymouth

Typically, the nights that get ever so slightly out of hand are my favourite. You know, the ones when you had no plans, but you’re still out and enjoying yourself hours beyond the intended deadline. The weight of expectation is a burden, while surprise is liberating.

Three years after we’d left university, I surprised Connor with a birthday trip to Plymouth. While it might not sound like much of a gift to you, the Southwest city where we formed our friendship had been the backdrop to a myriad of memories, and we were yet to return.

It was also the first time Con and I had seen each other, just the two of us, since ‘campsterdam’ two years previous. I left that trip with an overwhelming sense of pride that I had someone in my life who I could camp alongside, during a historic heatwave, with next to no electricity and only a deck of cards for entertainment. I’m convinced I’d have loathed that trip had it been with anyone else.

Then Covid put our friendship on pause. It’s not like we didn’t communicate, we spent hours at a time on the phone, but distance is a great divider. You can’t replicate the subtleties of living together, understanding social cues that go unspoken. Coincidentally, our trip to Plymouth coincided with becoming housemates again. Just days prior, I’d joined Con in Swansea, and then it was back to the Southwest.

For three nights, we sated our appetite for nostalgia. Our trilogy began in Hub Box, a place of healing. Rarely have I entered this sanctuary of fried food sober, though I’ve never left inebriated. Given that, why not wash it down with a bottle of orange wine while we watch the sun peek over the horizon later that evening?

Sunshine is an essential ingredient for enjoying Plymouth. Swansea is much the same. Both are almost unrecognisable on a dour day. The issue is the sun arrives fleetingly, but gladly, its stay aligned with our visit.

Refreshed from the rays, we took ourselves to Quay 33 the following evening. I always order the scallops wrapped in pancetta, seafood risotto, and cheesecake. Sure, there are other great staples, seasonal delights, and chef’s specials, but that combination eclipses all in my eyes.

Returning to old favourites is a strange business, and inevitably you anticipate a sense of stasis. Secretly you hope everything is precisely preserved the way you left it last, but you know there’s a chance something may have changed.

My friendship with Con was in a similar place. While I knew nothing but love existed between us, a few years apart had seen us drift. Sometimes the movement is such a steady creep you don’t even realise it has happened, similar to how the earth’s plates gradually shift, followed by a release in pressure. In this case, the release was the realising it wasn’t an issue and accepting that even though nothing had changed, our relationship would never be precisely the same as it once was.

Those were different times, memories persevered like museum artefacts, and this was our tour. However, on our final evening, I suggested Salumi, a place I’d only discovered late at uni and never visited with Con.

It felt a fitting final chapter to our trilogy. You enjoy surprises in total purity, and when I booked our trip to Plymouth, I didn’t anticipate it’d conclude with eating rarebit croquet and salmon pastrami.

Name more innate joys than exquisite food and company. Without being vulgar, you can’t. From then on, I’ve tried to remind myself to approach every day like an unexpected night out, to accept you can’t expect everything to be left just the way you’d like it.