I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough last month – me behind the wheel, sat-nav chirping away, and a boot full of wellies and waterproofs for what I hoped would be a proper seaside getaway with mates. We’d booked this cracking seaside-themed apartment on the ground floor of a grand old Victorian spot right by North Beach, one of those refs like 958912 that sleeps a few of us cosily. But about 20 miles out, disaster struck: a cheeky puncture from what must’ve been a rogue pothole. There we were, faffing about on the hard shoulder in the drizzle, me cursing my lack of spare tyre know-how while the others laughed and cracked open the crisps. An hour later, AA sorted, we rolled into town buzzing with anticipation – would the sea air hit us like a tonic, or would the weather play its usual tricks?

Pulling up, first impressions were spot on. The place looked a treat, all quaint and inviting with that nod to the coast, just a short stroll from Scarborough’s buzz. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, lungs full of that salty promise, eyes on the horizon for our first hike. Day one was a belter: blue skies, we powered along the promenade towards Northstead Manor Gardens, then veered onto the Cleveland Way clifftop path. The views over the bay were stunning – crashing waves, gulls wheeling about, and not a cloud in sight. We proper yomped it, stopping for fish and chips from a beachside van, grease dripping onto our laps as we perched on the pebbles. Felt like kids again, racing the tide.

But oh, British weather – you fickle friend. Next morning, we’d planned a hearty trek up to Oliver’s Mount, that cracking hill with panoramic sweeps over the town. Woke to grey skies and a mizzle that turned into a downpour mid-coffee. Plans scuppered! Laughing it off, we adapted sharpish: layered up and hit the lower paths along the South Cliff, where the rain actually added drama, turning the sea into a frothy beast. Slipped about on muddy trails, hands linked like daft schoolkids to avoid tumbling into gorse bushes. By afternoon, it cleared just enough for a wander through Peasholm Park, dodging puddles and feeding the ducks. Proper adventure, that – weather forcing us to improvise, discovering hidden spots we’d have missed on a sunny stomp.

Third day, we gambled on the forecast and tackled the full Scarborough to Cornelian Bay hike along the coastal path – about four miles of undulating bliss when the sun peeked out. Wind whipping our faces, we paused at the castle ruins for a brew from the flask, reflecting on how these jaunts remind you life’s too short for desk chairs. Me? I caught myself thinking I’d been grinding too hard lately; needed this reset, rain and all. Ended with a triumphant pub lunch back near the beach, pints in hand, plotting tomorrow’s route.

Scarborough’s walks are magic for that – ever-changing weather keeping you on your toes, turning a simple holiday into stories for years. If you’re after a ground-floor gem like ours for a gang, it’s ideal. We left knackered, happy, and already plotting a return.