I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Whitby, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that was more pothole than road. We bounced along for what felt like miles, me gripping the wheel and my mate Dave muttering about Yorkshire’s idea of a shortcut. But as we crested the hill into Scarborough, the clouds parted just enough to reveal the sea sparkling below, and suddenly all was forgiven. That first glimpse of the bay, with the castle ruins perched on the headland, had us grinning like kids. We were buzzing with anticipation – fish and chips on the beach, maybe a stroll along the Spa, proper holiday vibes.

Pulling up to our second-floor penthouse apartment, we were gobsmacked. Tucked right in the heart of the place, it was all sleek contemporary furnishings with these massive windows framing the beach resort below – you could practically smell the sea air from the sofa. Perfect spot to flop after a day out, and dead handy for nipping into town.

No sooner had we dumped our bags than we met Madge, the lady from downstairs who runs the corner newsagent. She popped up with a tray of tea and biscuits – “New faces, eh? You’ll need fortifying for Scarborough’s winds!” she declared in that broad Yorkshire twang. Over cups of builder’s brew, she regaled us with tales of the time a donkey from the beach escaped and trotted right into her shop, munching on the baccy packets. “Council were livid,” she chuckled, eyes twinkling. Proper character, Madge – warned us off the dodgy chippy down the road and pointed us to her mate’s instead.

Next day, ambling down to the harbour, we bumped into Terry, the fisherman with a beard like a bird’s nest and stories longer than his catch. He was mending nets outside his hut, gutting haddock with the precision of a surgeon. “Lads, you from down south?” he asked, squinting. We nodded, and off he went: how he once hooked a shark off the North Bay (“Bigger than me boat, it were!”), and the yearly ritual of the Lifeboat Day when the whole town turns out, locals in fancy dress racing wheelbarrows. We ended up buying his fresh crab, chatting for an hour about the Scarborough Fair – apparently, his gran used to dance there back when it was all gypsy caravans and mystery. Terry’s the sort who makes you feel like you’ve known him forever, full of that warm, no-nonsense humour.

Later, supping pints at a tiny pub near the Brunswick Centre, we got chatting to Elsie, the landlady in her 70s with a laugh like a foghorn. She’d lived through the floods of ’53 and reckoned the sea’s got a temper like her late husband. “Don’t go paddling at low tide,” she winked, “or the crabs’ll have your toes!” Her yarn about the time the town’s donkey derby ended in a mass breakout had us in stitches – animals everywhere, chaos till midnight.

Staying there made me pause one evening, gazing out at the twinkling lights from the penthouse. Amid the characters – quirky, kind-hearted souls like Madge, Terry, and Elsie – I realised holidays aren’t about fancy spots, but the people who make a place hum. Scarborough’s got heart, and those chats over tea, crab, and ale? Pure gold. Can’t wait to go back.