I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past York, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a detour through some muddy farm track. We were soaked and snacking on service station crisps by the time we finally crested that cliff road, hearts racing with that proper holiday buzz. But oh, what a payoff. Pulling up to our contemporary third and fourth-floor apartment, perched right on top of the cliff with those jaw-dropping views over the sea, it felt like we’d stumbled into a postcard. The place was sleek inside, all clean lines and big windows framing the bay – first impressions? Spot on.

We dumped the bags and headed straight out for fish and chips, because what else do you do on arrival in Scarborough? The proper kind, from a chippy down near the harbour, wrapped in paper and dripping with vinegar. Sat on a bench overlooking the waves, munching away as the sun dipped low – salty, crispy perfection. That set the tone: this holiday was going to be all about the eats.

Next morning, I fancied playing house chef. The kitchen was a dream, glossy and gadget-filled, so off to the local market on Huntriss Row. It’s a proper gem, stalls heaving with fresh Yorkshire seafood, crusty bread, and those fat, juicy tomatoes that taste like summer. I grabbed some plump cod, new potatoes, and a bunch of herbs, dreaming of a gourmet grill-up. Back at the flat, windows open to the sea breeze, I got stuck in. Disaster struck when I overdid the garlic – the whole place reeked like a vampire’s nightmare! We laughed it off, cracked open a couple of local ales from the fridge, and it wasn’t half bad in the end. Self-reflection moment: I’m no MasterChef, but there’s something dead satisfying about faffing about in a holiday kitchen, even if it ends in a slightly singed pan.

Evenings were pub time. The first night, we wandered to The Cask in town, a cosy spot with worn wooden tables and a cracking selection of North Yorkshire beers. I went for a pint of Black Sheep and their homemade pie – flaky pastry, tender beef, mash that stuck to your ribs. Proper fuel after a cliff-top stroll. Another evening, The Golden Ball near the cricket ground – think sticky toffee pudding so good it should be illegal, washed down with a cheeky gin. We chatted with locals about the best spots for crab, and they weren’t wrong: the next day’s lunch at a harbourside café was claws straight from the boats, picked fresh with mayo and bread. Messy, brilliant.

One highlight was attempting a full-on seafood feast back at the apartment. Market haul again – scallops, prawns, a whole lemon sole – seared them up with butter and lemon while sipping wine on the balcony, watching the lights twinkle across the bay. It wobbled a bit (undercooked scallop scare), but with mates and that view, it felt five-star.

Scarborough’s food scene is unpretentious joy – markets buzzing, pubs heaving with heartiness, and chip shops that deliver every time. Left us stuffed, happy, and already plotting the next trip. Proper holiday that.