The fisherman’s code stipulates that you exaggerate the size of your catch, but that doesn’t apply to commercial fishing, says Johnny Murt. “You’re constantly telling everyone how rubbish the fishing is, even when it’s not,” he laughs. “It’s all part of the game.”

Murt’s boat maintains the illusion: his 7.8m crabber Homarus isn’t what you’d call a looker, and seems to be patched up with whatever he had to hand whenever repairs were needed. But there’s a logic to this, too, says its 39-year-old skipper: “If I had a flash boat, everyone would know I was doing well.”

And he’s doing very well indeed, thank you very much: when we meet on the quay in Padstow in mid-September, Murt has been pulling up about 350kg of crabs a day, and expects to hit 500kg come early October. That’s a lot of crab, I say. “It’s a lot of lifting,” he shoots back.

Murt isn’t your average commercial fisherman: he’s also a sustainability expert, and he has the certificates to prove it. In his early 20s, he upped sticks from Padstow and headed for the US. “I was a young man,” he says sheepishly. “I met this American girl and ended up following her home.” To fund his stay Stateside, Murt wangled himself a sports scholarship at the University of Massachusetts, where he signed up for a fisheries conservation course. “Coming from a family of fishermen, I’d always had an interest in marine science – it’s second nature to us.” He ended up staying 10 years, doing a masters and working at the world-renowned Marine Biological Laboratory in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

When he returned to the UK, it wasn’t to Padstow and the family fishing business, but to Defra and the Joint Nature Conservation Committee in Scotland, where he helped shape Britain’s marine-protected areas. “My fishing background was a great card to have up your sleeve when you’re up against some grizzled skipper wondering what this snotty kid could possibly teach him about his livelihood. I got more achieved in the pub than around the conference table.”

But fishing, and Padstow, is in his blood – his family has harvested these waters for four generations – and in 2011 Murt made the inevitable move back home, married a local girl, Cam, and had two sons, Eddie, two, and newborn Sonny. “Me, my brothers and uncles all run our own businesses, but at the end of the day, it’s family – we all muck in to help each other when needed.”

His approach to fishing also sets him apart. Rick Stein’s father Eric was a family friend who funded Grandad Murt’s first boat, and it was Rick who inadvertently opened young Johnny’s eyes to the power of the star chef: “Grandad was the crab man on Rick’s first series, and I went with him when he took the TV crew out to sea. They spent the whole time puking over the edge, which was incredibly funny to a 15-year-old.”

The experience made him realise that most people get their information about what is and isn’t sustainable from TV cooks, “with a few exceptions – Rick, Nathan Outlaw, Mitch Tonks – they’re just not qualified to talk. They speak in soundbites that the public laps up.”

Pontifications aside, the influence of the big-name chef left a lasting impression that informs how Murt fishes a quarter of a century later. Most fishermen set out to bring in as large a haul as possible to take to market, but Murt actively looks for prime produce to sell directly to chefs. “If you’ve got a good relationship with even two or three cooks, and you look after them properly, they’ll look after you. They’ll pay you way more than you would get at market.” The Stein empire is still a huge client, and he also supplies Nieves Barragán Mohacho at Barrafina, Rick Toogood of Prawn On The Lawn in both Padstow and London, and Nathan Outlaw’s Mariners pub over the estuary in Rock.

“I’ve known Johnny since I started at the Seafood Restaurant in 1998,” says Outlaw, who with two Michelin stars under his belt knows a thing or two about seafood. “He’s the template for a modern fisherman: he cares deeply about the state of the sea, and the welfare of fishermen.”

Even so, Murt plans to avoid his fellow fishermen for a few days after the awards. “They’re going to rip the piss out of me on the quay,” he says. “I’m no different from anyone else here: I go out, I catch what I catch, then I come in and try to sell it. That’s what we all do.”

With that, he heads for Homarus, to check his pots and grab a few crabs for the restaurants. “I’m a lucky guy,” Murt says with a cheesy grin. “I’m doing what I love – I’d happily go out every day, so long as the missus lets me.”

He looks around the harbour. “Being able to do it here in Padstow is just the icing on the cake.”
Murt’s Shellfish, Padstow