I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – a proper British road trip that started with high hopes and a cheeky detour. We’d packed the car with wellies, waterproofs, and a thermos of tea, buzzing about all the coastal walks ahead. But halfway there, just past York, the sat-nav decided to have a funny turn and sent us down a narrow lane that ended in a muddy farm track. Cue 20 minutes of reversing with the hazard lights on while a flock of sheep looked on judgementally. Still, we laughed it off, arrived a bit later than planned, and pulled up to this cracking ground-floor apartment right near the beach. First impressions? Spot on. It’s got that perfect cosy vibe for a couple or mates sharing – pet-friendly too, though our dog was already eyeing up the seagulls. Stepping inside, the open-plan living space hit us like a warm hug: slick kitchen kitted out for whipping up scran, a dining table for proper chats, and a telly for chilling after a day out. The sea’s gentle whoosh just outside the window sealed the deal – we were sorted.

With Scarborough’s cliffs and beaches on our doorstep, we were geared up for hikes galore. Day one dawned bright, so we laced up and headed straight for the South Cliff promenade – that flat stroll along the seafront with Valley Gardens peeking inland, all flowerbeds and fresh air. We wandered past the cricket ground, nattering about nothing, before pushing on towards the Holbeck end. The sun was bouncing off the waves, and I felt that rare holiday buzz where everything slots into place. Lunch was fish and chips from a beach hut, eaten on the sand while the dog chased foam. Pure bliss.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, doesn’t it? Next morning, we planned the big one: the full South Bay to North Bay clifftop walk, that cracking trail hugging the headland with Peasholm Park as the payoff. Two miles of ups and downs, peering over at the castle ruins. We set off optimistic, hoods down, only for the sky to turn biblical mid-cliff. Sudden squall, horizontal rain lashing in off the North Sea. Plans in tatters, we ducked into the Italian Gardens for shelter, huddling under a gazebo with dripping noses and soggy maps. “Typical,” I chuckled, but secretly loving the drama. It forced us to improvise – a detour down to the beach for pebble-hunting instead, then a slow amble back via the spa bridge, watching the funicular trundle up the cliff. By evening, the clouds parted just enough for a golden-hour potter along the harbour, seals barking below.

The weather kept us on our toes the rest of the week – one day a misty hike around Cornelian Bay, just a short bus hop away but we walked it anyway, fog rolling in like a cosy blanket; another a rainy retreat to the promenade, dodging puddles and popping into a café for cream tea. It made me reflect a bit, sat there in the apartment with a brew, feet up: holidays aren’t about sticking to the plan, are they? It’s the soggy socks and spontaneous laughs that stick. Scarborough’s walks delivered every time, weather and all – we left fitter, happier, and plotting a return. If you fancy a proper coastal jaunt with a side of unpredictability, this spot’s your bag.