How far would you travel to see your favourite musicians?

London for Abba Voyage? Paris for Taylor Swift? Las Vegas for the latest residency?

For me, it was the Fisherman’s Friends in the glamorous surroundings of … erm … Grimsby.

Yes, last week, I zoomed up the M5 (within legal speed limits, of course), with the aim of hearing the dulcet tones of the world’s oldest buoy band.

They must surely have felt right at home in one of the UK’s hardest working fishing ports, especially as one of their biggest breaks was advertising fish fingers and chip-shop cod for one of the town’s leading seafood companies.

The second Fisherman’s Friends film even begins with a performance introduced by the words “Hello, Grimsby!” So I was surprised to hear moustachioed baritone Jon Cleave say this was the first time the real band had performed there – clearly the scriptwriters through Grimsby had just the right ring (panache, even?) for their movie.

Strident singer Jeremy Brown was even spotted on social media rescuing a Grimbarian seagull that had got caught in some wire netting. “I wouldn’t do that in Port Isaac, not given the mess they make on my car,” he admitted during that evening’s performance.

Of course, seeing the Fishies was not the only reason for my trip up north. It was my dear old ma’s birthday – and she certainly is old these days (sorry, Mum) – and, being a huge FF fan, she was delighted when their tour dates were announced to find that her home date fell slap-bang on her big day.

I managed to bag one of the last tickets on sale, and booked a few days off in what turned out to be the toastiest week of the year. All that sunshine that could have been enjoyed in a cute Cornish cove, instead fell upon life in a northern town.

But my trip to the motherland led me to reflect on my two sides: that which belongs in Cornwall after 25-plus years in the far South West, and that which remains resolutely Grimsby.

You know the “nearly home” trees just outside Launceston, that signal to all Cornish folk that they’re about to cross over onto the right side of the Tamar? Grimsby has its own version: my heart skips a beat when I crest a hill and see the smoking chimneys of the Humber Bank oil refineries over the other side. Ansum, as they don’t say up there.

My uncle was most impressed by my pseudo Kernow-tartan collection – a shirt resplendent in yellow, black and white, and a similar handbag that has binmen leaning out of their cabs to shout “LOVE YOUR BAG, MAID!”

As we made our way into the auditorium to see our beloved shantymen, I complimented a man on his black and gold rugby shirt (bought on holiday in 2005) and was delighted to see the St Piran flag draped loud, proud and centre stage. When Toby Lobb launched into Cornwall My Home, I joined in misty-eyed, and might even have put my hand on my heart.  

In fact, I sang heartily to every single number. We do, after all, have all the CDs – including the new one, which is pretty darn good – and have been wearing them out for years, not to mention the trips to al fresco gigs in Port Isaac (sadly no longer a regular occurrence due to the sheer numbers they attracted in the end).

In fact, I felt a little sorry for the people on either side of me, who probably hadn’t signed up to sit next to Annoying-Singing-Person-Who-Knows-All-The-Words-To-Every-Bloody-Song. But to be fair, Jon C had invited one and all to pitch in whenever the mood took them, and I think I’m tuneful enough - although the four folk to my left didn’t come back for the second half, so maybe I’m not.

And I’d like to say #sorrynotsorry to the guy on my right, who appeared more interested in his phone than the stage. At least this was preferable to poor Mum’s neighbour, a shanty-phobic woman who had been dragged along by her mates, and had downed several glasses of vino to get into the mood (Drunken Sailor indeed).

But those two were in the minority. By the time we reached the end of the show, with an encore of upbeat numbers and firm favourites, everyone was on their feet, and some were even reeling in the aisles.

I felt truly proud of this success story from my adopted homeland, viewed through the prism of those who live 360 miles away and think the FFs – and Cornwall - are brilliant. I am truly lucky to live in such a beautiful place, rich in both heritage and modern culture, and it does no harm to leave occasionally so I can appreciate it even more.