I finally made it to Scarborough after a bit of a faff on the journey up from Leeds. I'd set off full of beans, dreaming of crashing out by the sea, but halfway there, the sat nav decided to have a hissy fit and sent me on a detour through some winding lanes that felt like they were leading to Narnia. I ended up pulling over in a layby for a brew from my thermos, laughing at myself for not printing out a proper map like in the old days. Still, by the time I trundled into the traditional seaside resort on the North Yorkshire coast, the sun was peeking through the clouds, and I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation – you know, the kind where anything feels possible.

Pulling up to the place, my first impressions were spot on. It's this cracking first-floor apartment in a spot called Manor Heath, all welcoming with its classy pink and grey décor that somehow manages to feel both stylish and cosy without trying too hard. I was there with a mate who'd joined for a long weekend, and we dumped our bags, cracked open a couple of cold ones, and just soaked it in. No grand plans, mind – this trip was all about doing bugger all, and it suited us down to the ground.

The real joy kicked in straight away with the garden. It's a proper sun trap, tucked away and overlooking the gentle roll of the town towards the sea. We spent the first afternoon lounging on the chairs down there, feet up, with nothing but the sound of gulls and distant waves. I cracked open a dog-eared paperback I'd been meaning to read for months – some light thriller that had me chuckling at the daft plot twists – while my mate dozed off with his hat over his eyes. Bliss, absolute bliss. No rushing about, no itineraries; just the luxury of time stretching out lazy-like.

The next couple of days blurred into this perfect rhythm of slowing right down. Mornings started late with toast and marmalade in the kitchen, peering out at the Scarborough skyline, then back to the garden for more reading. I got through half the book, lost in my own world, occasionally wandering up to the balcony for a nose at the promenade below – all those families with buckets and spades, but we were quite happy being sloths. Lunch was a simple picnic of cheese sarnies and crisps, eaten sprawled out on the grass, watching clouds drift by. Evenings meant firing up the little grill for sausages and a bit of people-watching from the window, with the faint hum of the town fair carrying on the breeze.

There was this one moment, sat there on day three with a cuppa in hand, staring at the horizon, when it hit me – how often do we proper rush through life, noses to the grindstone? Here I was, mid-forties and finally learning to switch off without feeling guilty. A gentle nudge from the universe, I reckon, reminding me that holidays aren't about ticking boxes; they're for recharging the batteries in the slowest, sweetest way. We did venture out once for fish and chips from a chippy down the road – proper batter-crisp cod, wrapped in paper, eaten on a bench by the harbour – but even that was low-key, just enough to whet the appetite for more garden lounging.

By the time we packed up, I was properly hooked on this do-nothing lark. If you're after a Scarborough stay that lets you unwind with mates or family – and you can link up a few of these apartments to sleep loads – it's the ticket. Left feeling lighter, calmer, and already plotting the next lazy escape.