Devon

As one glass of Muscadet became two, the golden sunlight dipped into near-horizontal shafts that tinted the estuary a burnished, Turneresque citrine. Looking up from my golden revery, a plump crab was borne past gently steaming in the fish-fugged haze. With a metaphorical wink of its stalky eye, now occluded forever in the rolling boil of a watery doom, it seemed to say, ‘Mourn not my passing, I met a happy garlic-buttery death’. A carnivore's consolation, I suppose, to presume that such a magnificent creature might have given itself willingly to the sensuous pleasure of us claw picking and sucking apes. But here you are so close to the ebb and flow of natural process that it feels not exploitative but in tune with nature’s way and centuries of fishing tradition, both. And it was, after all, only a crab on a plate albeit a rather majestic one.

Salcombe’s Crab Shed is – despite its Tom Sawyer sounding name – a genteel affair. And Crab is very definitely their star-turn. It pops up in any number of delicious ways: bisqued, bruschettaed, potted, saladed, linguined, bouillabaissed as well as the crowing glory of their Fruits de Mer. £158 (for 2) might seem a little hair-raising for the latter platter but the equivalent is £192 at Scott’s (Mayfair) and £180 at Skeekey’s (Charring Cross). And what you lose in Central London Chic you gain in freshness and lack of food miles, much of The Shed’s fish coming from directly beneath your feet, or near enough!

The English having a slight distrust of rock-pool rummaging (I blame the Napoleonic wars …) there are three other directions that recommend themselves, all mercifully less expensive. One is to go down the trad fish n’ ships route, fresh off the boat, crisp and reassuringly Brit. Or there’s the Local Day Boat Catch (with its slightly ominous ‘market price’ caveat). On our visit, it was a lovely turbot fillet a-top Jersey royals. A-swim in a buttery, lightly fishy broth, the accompanying lemon and pea shoots weren’t frippery but an entirely necessary part of the overall dish. Simply, a really good piece of cooking. Finally, there’s Crab and Chips. I have rather a thing for its slight incongruity and total lack of pretension: the obligatory salt and vinegar seasons the bland white filaments perfectly and they lend their mayonnaise largesse in return to the crusty potato carapaces. Worth a punt whenever you see it on a menu.

A better than expect selection of fish-friendly whites (from Chablis to Champagne via Albariño and Picpoul de Pinet) will see you sail off into your own watercolour dream, with local gins, beers and rums completing a near picture-perfect scene.

Hard to see how you might happen upon Hope Cove, unless you were a swashbuckling type arriving by galleon. We didn’t see many Erol Flynns the day we visited, though. Odd that. But its certainly not on the way to anywhere and has, therefore, to rise to the occasion of a ‘destination’. And that means any local foodie haunt has to be better than average, way better.

Having been given the nod by a local foodie colleague, we fired up the sat nav, drove around in circles for some time and then had to resort to an old-fashioned paper map of dubious, Dark Ages cartography. By some miracle, we found it. We were staying just down the coast, on the beautiful Rame Head where the might Tamar crashes into the sea. In Cornwall, in fact – so felt slightly traitorous as we left our cliff-top eyrie and headed off to the more bucolic delights of the county just over the bridge. If you’re staying in Cornwall, lunching in Devon is not something to admit to. I can’t imagine it ever crosses the minds of locals. Here be dragons etc etc.

The beautiful sand and rock-pool-strewn Hope Cove is a quiet sort of place whatever your West Country leanings. There’s more than a hint of hipster, surfer-dude mixed in with the traditional charms of the TQ postcodes (which range wildly from the rumbustious slap ‘n tickle of Torquay, via the billowing sails of Salcombe to the vegan self-knit and shamanic drum workshops of Totnes). The cove is home to a winner of the UK’s best craft beer bar or so I’m told (named – somewhat predictably – The Cove, it has rather nice views over the beach).

But we’d come to check out the restaurant at Hope Cove House (gosh, they do love their coves ‘round ‘ere). Not all places possess A-list looks from the outside and I think it’s fair to say that HCH’s charms lie within and on a deeper, more specifically gastro, level. Don’t be put off however by the plain exterior, inside is a lovely dining room, fresh, open and welcoming. A little bit Scandi, a scattering of New England and a whiff of Shoreditch. The place is a hotel and although I didn’t see the rooms I imagine they follow this cheery eclecticism and would make a rather nice base for … well … surfing and cove-hop(p)ing I suppose.

Lunch was a perfect mix of tip-top ingredients handled with a light touch and keen eye to letting freshness and inherent goodness sing. First up, bread. I do get overexcited when presented with home-made bread and butter, I have to admit: theirs was really very nice indeed. And served with a jaunty sea-urchin-shaped bowl of sea-salt flakes. Best of all, it made the perfect mop for a plate of anchovies served in precise modernist rows with rosemary oil and lemon. Oh, they were good. Other nibbly bits like almonds, hunks of Parmesan and Jersey oyster all sounded tempting, if not exactly local. Teignmouth has oysters and you can get Cornish natives when in season. What about a pilchard or two (even if you up their Mediterranean chic by calling them sardines)? And there are a few West Country grana cheeses that might fit the bill. Perhaps theirs is one of them: it resolutely avoids calling itself Parmigiano Regiano on the menu, after all. 

This slight gripe aside, we happily moved on to a crisp salad of chicory and blue cheese (surely local?) cleverly strewn with pops of caramelised walnut. A couple of sweet-fleshed red mullet, crusty from the plancha, then arrived in a shower of fried garlic slivers, accompanied by very good frites and wobbly-yolky aioli. We confined ourselves to the lower reaches of the wine list, but a roll call of Gavis, Grüners, Verdicchios made this a pleasure rather than a chore. A few Menetou-Salon gems and the odd oddity like Spanish Txakolina would keep things perky for supper. Fine selection of beer, too.

A very good lunch, just what Erol Flynn would have ordered. I’d definitely return, if I could find it again that is ...