I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough last autumn – the leaves were turning that gorgeous coppery gold, carpeting the roads like nature’s own welcome mat. Me and my partner had been buzzing with anticipation for weeks, dreaming of cosy evenings by the sea as the season shifted. But typical me, I took a wrong turn just outside Whitby, ending up on some winding moorland lane with nothing but sheep giving me side-eye. We laughed it off, though – 20 minutes later, we were back on track, windows down, breathing in that crisp, briny air that screams Yorkshire coast.

Pulling up to our beautiful first-floor apartment, right in the heart of things near South Bay, I was gobsmacked. The views from the balcony alone were worth the detour – the sea stretching out all moody and endless under those big, dramatic skies. It’s the sort of one-bedroom flat that feels like a proper romantic hideaway: king-size bed piled high with fluffy pillows, sleek interiors that made you want to kick off your boots and stay put. First impressions? Spot on. We dumped the bags and cracked open a bottle of wine as the sun dipped low, painting the bay in fiery oranges.

Autumn in Scarborough is magic, isn’t it? No summer crowds clogging the pavements, just that perfect hush where you can actually hear the waves crashing. We wandered down to South Bay beach the next morning, wellies on because the tide had left everything slick and sparkly with seaweed. The air was that fresh, invigorating chill – just enough to pink your cheeks but not freeze you solid. We crunched through the pebbles, skimmed stones (I’m rubbish at it, mind – mine always plopped like sad ducks), and watched families building sandcastles before the wind whipped them away. It felt timeless, like the town was exhaling after the holiday rush.

Lunches were all about hearty chips from the beach huts, wrapped in paper that steamed up in the breeze, and mugs of tea from the Valley Gardens café. Speaking of which, a stroll through the gardens was pure bliss – the leaves swirling like confetti, the colours popping against the fading green. We even caught the tail end of the autumn flower displays, vibrant chrysanthemums nodding in the gusts. Evenings back at the flat were the real treat: balcony dinners with the windows fogging from our breath, fairy lights twinkling as the days grew shorter. One night, we wrapped up in blankets, listening to the gulls and distant fairground hum from the North Bay front – Peasholm Park’s glen was aglow with that golden-hour light, begging for a visit.

Of course, there was a moment when the rain rolled in, as it does, turning the sky slate-grey and the sea wild. Sat there with a cuppa, watching it lash the windows, I had a proper think. Holidays like this aren’t about non-stop sunbathing; they’re about leaning into the season, letting it wrap around you like a favourite jumper. It made me reflect on how we rush through life – this trip slowed us right down, reminding me to savour the quiet bits. Scarborough in autumn? It’s got my heart. We’re already plotting a return.