If you, like me, are one of those people who document their travels with discarded napkins and lengthening belts, then I have somewhere to stick on your list of “Places I must visit and stuff my fat head”.

It’s the west coast of Sweden, and it should be near the top of any food-lover’s fantasy league. In Gothenburg, the Nordic nation’s second city, there are five Michelin-starred restaurants.

There are food markets that have been around since the 19th century. And there’s a sea full of shellfish falling over themselves to prove that they’re the freshest thing around for miles.

Gothenburgers have fish with everything. They start the day with herring; for lunch it’s prawn sandwiches; at dinner the choice is limited to anything that swims. They even have Grebbestad lager, brewed specially to be drunk with stuff that comes with scales and fins.

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Grebbestad itself is a fishing village, some 90 miles north of Gothenburg, in the district of Bohuslan. The water is Sweden’s deepest, saltiest and richest, and produces most of the seafood for the surrounding area.

It’s here that fishermen have got together with local tourism companies to put on crayfish, lobster and oyster safaris for curious natives and hungry tourists. Being both curious and hungry, I signed up.

INGEMAR GRANQUIST is a softly spoken liar. He promised me that it wouldn’t be choppy out there hunting crayfish, but as we bang and crash and wallop through waves that, admittedly, wouldn’t worry the QE2 but certainly gave me the willies, I detect a little twinkle in his pale-blue eyes.

Granquist has been fishing from Fjallbacka, south of Grebbestad, since 1990, and he ignores the swell as he balances nonchalantly on one foot and sticks the other through a bright-orange pair of industrial waterproofs. Meanwhile, I’m trying to look casual while holding on for dear life.

Once we’ve been through the worst of it, Granquist and his Day-Glo pyjamas get down to business, winching up the line from the buoy that identifies his sunken treasure chests. He has more than 500 crayfish pots at different points among the isles and inlets here, but, because of what he dismissively calls “just a little wind”, we grab 40 and go.

The pots are kept about 60ft below sea level, a depth that allows for just the right amount of salt in the spiky critters’ drinking water, and each mesh cage winched up deposits a couple more. The biggest are nearly a foot in length. Once we have a bucketful, the pots go back over the side and we head inland, grateful to be sailing with the waves rather than against them — my colour returns from green to something a bit more human.

There are two parts to any fishing safari: the fishing and the eating. Guess which is more fun? We take our catch to a small wooden hut on a tiny nearby island, where Granquist has a gas heater attached to a water tub. Once the salt water is boiling, the crayfish are dunked and cooked for a few minutes, then taken out to cool.

The trick to dismantling them is in the squeeze. After you’ve removed the head (you can suck out the insides, if you fancy: it’s a completely different texture, but everyone within 10ft will shout “Euugghh”), squeeze the body so the shell cracks, then turn it over and peel the armour away from the flesh. Clench the base of the tail so the crayfish pops out; devour; repeat.

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