I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – or rather, the moment we nearly didn’t make it. We’d piled into the car in Leeds, kids bickering in the back with the dog’s head in their laps, and I’d promised myself I’d take the scenic route through the moors. Big mistake. About halfway, the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy quagmire after last night’s rain. There we were, wheels spinning, me frantically reversing while the other half laughed and snapped photos for posterity. Twenty minutes and a good shove later, we were back on track, hearts racing but buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. Scarborough was calling, and so was a week of proper Yorkshire grub.

Pulling up to the house felt like striking gold. Tucked away in that sweet spot between the North York Moors and the coast, this big family pile had us grinning from ear to ear – space galore for us lot, including the two daft dogs who went mental at the garden. Stunning views out every window, and you could practically smell the sea air mixed with chip fat. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of fizz while the kids claimed bedrooms, already plotting beach runs.

But let’s be honest, the real star of the show was the food. We’d stocked up en route at a farm shop just off the A171 – local cheeses that could make you weep, crusty loaves, and a slab of pork pie that didn’t last the journey. That first night, with the hot tub bubbling away outside, we fired up the open hearth and had a right go at cooking. I fancied myself a chef, slapping together a shepherd’s pie with mince from the butcher in Scarborough town (pro tip: Jackson’s is a gem for proper meat). It came out lopsided but lush, washed down with ales from the local Wold Top brewery we’d nabbed earlier. Sat there by the fire, bellies full, dogs snoring – pure bliss.

Next day, we hit Scarborough’s market on Westborough. What a feast for the senses! Stalls heaving with fresh Whitby scampi, handmade pork scratchings, and jars of that tangy North Sea pickle. Bargain-hunted for smoked kippers and a punnet of plump strawberries, then wandered to the harbour for fish straight off the boats. Lunch was heaven: battered cod and chips from the golden chippy on Sandside, vinegar dripping, eaten on the beach with sand in our socks. Back at the house, the other half took over the BBQ in that gorgeous garden – succulent sausages from the market, grilled sweetcorn, and a cheeky bottle of prosecco. I burned the baps slightly, mind you, which had everyone in stitches. “You’re a liability in the kitchen,” she teased. Fair cop – I’m more taster than master chef.

Evenings were pub perfection. Strolled to The Falcon in nearby Suffield for pints of Black Sheep and plates of pie with lashings of gravy. Another night, The Rigging Lobster down by the coast – crab claws and moules that tasted of the sea itself. One rainy afternoon, we hunkered down with a massive curry attempt using spices from the market: chicken tikka that was more mild than Madras, but the naan made up for it. Laughing over our culinary disasters felt like the holiday’s gentle nudge – we’re not pros, but together we muddle through, and isn’t that the point?

By week’s end, we’d devoured more than our fair share of Yorkshire puds, cream teas from the Old Scalby Mills café, and one glorious Sunday roast at home with veg from the garden. Roll on the next trip – my waistline might disagree, but my soul’s all in.