I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past York, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a merry detour through some sodden farmland. We were crammed into the car with kids bickering in the back and me nursing a lukewarm coffee, wondering if this seaside jaunt was cursed before it began. But as we crested the hill into town, the clouds parted just enough to reveal the glittering North Sea, and my heart lifted. Scarborough’s got that magic, doesn’t it? All rugged cliffs and candy-striped charm, pulling you in like an old mate.

Pulling up to our spot right in the thick of it, a stone’s throw from the coast, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – visions of fish and chips on the beach, donkey rides, the works. It’s this cracking apartment over two floors, dead cosy and spot-on for our gang of six. We dumped the bags, fired up the gas range cooker in the kitchen (those wood cabinets are stuffed with everything you need), and whipped up cheese toasties at the breakfast bar. Up the wide steps to the sitting-dining room, we sprawled out, plotting the week’s adventures over cups of tea. First impressions? Bloody brilliant – felt like home, but with sea air sneaking through the windows.

Day one, the weather played nice: bright blue skies, so we legged it straight to the South Cliff promenade. It’s an easy wander along the bracing seafront, past the crazy golf and ice cream stalls, building up to that proper hike up the cliffs. The views from there are something else – Scarborough’s twin bays stretching out, waves crashing below. We puffed our way to the edge, wind whipping our cheeks, laughing at the seagulls dive-bombing for chips. Pure joy.

But oh, British weather – fickle as a cat. Next morning, it turned. Grey skies rolled in, drizzle turning to proper horizontal rain. Our grand plan for the Cleveland Way coastal path? Scrubbed. Instead, we improvised with a sheltered yomp through Peasholm Park, dodging puddles under those massive pines. The Japanese garden was a misty wonder, bridges over the lake looking like something from a storybook. Kids splashed about, I got soaked pretending to be unfazed, and we ended up in a café nursing hot chocolates, plotting comeback hikes.

By midweek, sun peeked out again, and we tackled the North Bay bluff – steeper than it looks, but worth every gasp. Up top, Filey Bay shimmering in the distance (well, just about in sight), and that fresh sea breeze clearing the cobwebs. One rainy afternoon, we hunkered down for board games in the sitting room, rain pattering the windows, which was oddly perfect. Made me reflect a bit – holidays aren’t about forcing the plan; they’re about rolling with the squalls, aren’t they? Teaches you to savour the sunny bits more.

We wrapped with a final damp-but-determined stroll along the Spa Cliff Walk, waves roaring approval. Scarborough’s walks are gold – whatever the weather throws, they deliver. Left feeling recharged, windswept, and already plotting a return. If you’re after coastal vibes with a side of character-building rain, this is your spot.