I finally made it to Scarborough after that daft detour on the A170 – took a wrong turn near Pickering and ended up faffing about in some sleepy village, arguing with the sat-nav like it was my ex. But as I rolled into town, the sea air hit me proper, and my heart lifted. Spotting the beachfront just ahead, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation, you know? Great first impressions straight off – the sun glinting off the waves, families paddling at North Bay, and the promise of fish and chips without the guilt.

Pulled up to this cracking ground-floor apartment slap bang in the centre, all modern vibes with an open-plan setup that screamed "relax here". Perfect for me and my other half – king-size bed with its own telly for lazy lie-ins, plush corner sofa for sofa-surfing, and a sleek kitchen that looked like it meant business. But the real star? That private courtyard out back, ideal for summer evenings with a cold drink, catching the last of the Yorkshire sun. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, tummies rumbling.

First stop: the local market down by the harbour. Scarborough's got this brilliant little covered market packed with fresh stalls – I grabbed some plump cod fillets, local mussels, and a bunch of veg that actually tasted of earth. Back at the flat, I fancied myself as a MasterChef contender. Whipped up a seafood chowder in that well-stocked kitchen – cream, potatoes, a splash of white wine from the offy. It wasn't half bad, though I did burn the first batch of garlic bread. Laughed it off with a beer in the courtyard, watching the sun dip. Self-reflection moment: turns out I'm better at eating than cooking, but there's joy in the faff, innit?

Next morning, we hit The Magpie Café for breakfast – proper greasy spoon heaven. Black pudding, scrambled eggs on thick toast, and endless pots of tea. Fuelled up, we wandered to the Italian Gardens for a mooch, then straight to The Golden Ball pub for lunch. Cracking pint of Black Sheep and a massive Yorkshire pudding filled with roast beef and gravy that had me in food coma bliss. Evenings were pub crawls – The Rosette down the road for pie and mash, all sticky tables and locals nattering about the cricket. One night, I attempted paella with market prawns and chorizo; it was more sludge than saffron dream, but washed down with rosé in the courtyard, who cares?

Markets became our daily pilgrimage – fresh bread from the bakery stall, cheeses that could make you weep, and those fat Scarborough kippers smoked right there. Smoked 'em in the kitchen (well, pan-fried, let's be honest) with scrambled eggs for brekkie. Pub-wise, The Pipe and Glass wasn't far for a cheeky curry night – lamb bhuna that packed a punch. We lounged on the sofa after, full as ticks, bingeing some rubbish telly.

Honestly, this holiday was all about the grub. No grand plans, just markets, meals, and the odd kitchen disaster. Left feeling stuffed, happy, and plotting the next trip. Scarborough, you've got my stomach's heart.