I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – sat nav on, windows down, belting out some old Oasis tunes with the missus, when wouldn’t you know it, we hit a massive queue just past Whitby. Turned out to be a flock of sheep causing merry hell on the road, shepherd in wellies waving his crook like he owned the A171. Half an hour later, we’re laughing about it, pulling into the permit parking spot right by this cracking first-floor apartment we’d booked, slap bang in the centre of town. Heart racing a bit with that holiday buzz – beach so close I could smell the sea air already.

Stepped inside and blimey, what a belter. Bright open-plan living space with a sleek grey kitchen, comfy sofas, and this massive bay window framing the coastline like a postcard. Perfect for us four – me, the wife, and our mates Dave and Sue. We cracked open a bottle of fizz straight away, toasting the views while the Smart TV hummed in the background. First impressions? Spot on. Felt like home but with that proper seaside vibe.

But the real magic of the place? The characters you bump into. Barely unpacked when we wandered down to the beach for a chippy tea. There’s Madge, this wiry old dear selling rock from a stall, yelling “Scarborough’s finest, luv, none of that rubbish from Filey!” She reckoned her recipe’s been in the family since the war, and slipped us a free stick each after I joked my teeth were up to the challenge. Proper character, teeth like a pirate’s but heart of gold.

Next morning, over brekkie with sea views, we headed to the Italian Gardens – stunning spot up the hill, all manicured hedges and peacocks strutting about. Met Terry there, a retired fisherman with a beard down to his knees, feeding the birds and spinning yarns about smuggling brandy back in the day. “Lads these days couldn’t haul a net in a bath,” he chuckled, eyes twinkling. We sat chatting an hour, him sketching us a map of hidden coves on a napkin. Felt like we’d known him years.

Afternoon saunter to the Castle ruins – that hulking great headland looming over everything. Queue at the ticket hut, and who’s there but Barry, the ticket bloke, doling out dad jokes with every entry. “Why did the crab blush? Because it saw the sea’s bottom!” Groaned but loved it. He pointed us to the best viewpoint for spotting seals, and later we caught him in the pub down the road, The Cask, regaling punters with more tales. Bought him a pint; bloke’s a Scarborough institution.

Evening stroll along the prom, fish and chips in hand again – can’t beat it. Chatted with a gang of local lads outside the theatre, all hyped for the panto season. One, cheeky Scouser transplant called Mick, swore the apartment’s bay window was prime for spying on the funfair lights. “Best seat in town, that is,” he winked.

Looking back, it’s the people that made it. Not just the cracking digs or the waves crashing below, but these quirky locals pulling you into their world. Makes you reflect – in our rush-a-day lives back home, we forget how a natter with strangers like Madge or Terry recharges the soul. Scarborough’s got that in spades. Can’t wait to go back.