What’s it about?
Famous for the Pilgrims, Sir Francis Drake and Scott of the Antarctic, this seafaring city’s best-known sons made their names by getting the fuck out. Today it boasts five universities, an aquarium, a lighthouse and lower than average life expectancy.
The only city in a hinterland of thatched cottages, cream teas, and fuck-off rich Londoners with second homes, Plymouth therefore has all the shit stuff and a massive Naval base. So any night out answers the question ‘What should we do with the drunken sailor?’ with ‘stay out of his fucking way or he’ll lamp you’.
Any good points?
If you’ve got a thing for boats, get ready to jizz. There’s a Naval Heritage Museum, a Naval Memorial, a Dive Museum and more marinas than you can shake a semen-smeared sextant at. A museum called The Box has fourteen ships’ figureheads so that’s going straight in the wank bank.
Back on dry land a former Toys R Us building counts for local heritage and there’s also a gin distillery, just like everywhere else. This one’s older though.
Also has the closest thing to a football team for two whole counties, Plymouth Argyle, who play in glamorous League One. Mainly exists to force supporters of rival teams to travel hundreds of miles for away games that are very much not worth it.
Wonderful landscapes?
Best described as ‘aspirational’ in the sense that, whichever way you look, you can see places loads better than Plymouth. But you don’t need to gaze across the Channel to get into the Pilgrim mindset. Simply look at one of the many shuttered takeaways to see the appeal of a two-month sea voyage into the complete unknown.
Today, Plymouth is a city daubed with fifty shades of grey. Bombed by the Germans in World War Two, it lost many of its heritage buildings and apparently all of its architects. This has resulted in a rash of brutal design – not brutalisme, just fucking brutal.
Hang out at…
In days gone by sailors pressganged themselves to get away from Plymouth’s docks but now a brisk walk, eyes down, and you’ll make it through. Pour out a half for The Avondale Arms, once featured on Britain’s Toughest Pubs. These days it’s a shadow of its former, terrifying self and you’d be lucky to witness even one argument spill over into senseless violence.
Union Street is the Sunset Strip with snakebite and black instead of speedballs. It’s the only place for Plymouth’s elite amateur MMA fighters to hit and be hit.
For a less authentic experience try The Barbican. There are pubs and restaurants, cobbled streets and a general feeling that you’re somewhere better.
Where to buy?
Mutley, home to much of Plymouth’s student population, offers a whispered promise of gentrification. But what a gamble! Best case: you’ve contributed to housing unaffordability. Worst case: you live in a shitbox in a place called Mutley.
Camel’s Head might sound like a euphemism for impending trouser disaster, but the area is much worse than that. And next to Camel’s Head is Swilly. Swilly is now properly known as North Prospect, like when an airline changes its name after a fatal crash. But nobody’s fooled.
From the streets:
Tom Logan, aged 23: “I like to get the ferry to Brittany. Though you don’t see many French people coming the other way. Weird.”
Sophie Rodriguez, aged 18: “Are we in Devon or are we in Cornwall? Because neither of them are claiming us.”
