I’d only been in Scarborough an hour when the satnav decided the quickest route from the station was straight through a hedge. The driver looked mortified, but I just laughed it off and dragged my case the last hundred yards to 16 High Street, already wondering what else the weekend had in store. The little terraced cottage sat tucked between a chippy and a gift shop that sold shells glued to picture frames, and the moment I stepped inside the smell of slightly damp towels and yesterday’s toast told me I was properly on holiday.

I’d barely unpacked the teabags before there was a tap at the open door. A woman in a bright pink anorak was peering in, holding a takeaway coffee. “You the one what’s borrowed old Margery’s place?” she asked, and before I could answer she’d invited herself onto the doorstep for a natter. Her name was Linda, and she ran the launderette two doors down; within five minutes I knew which slot machines paid out on the seafront and which ones were “rigged tighter than my Derek’s wallet.” She left me with a wink and a promise to save me a dryer if it rained.

Later, while I was trying to work out how the ancient boiler worked, a lad of about twelve appeared on the pavement with a fishing net and a very serious expression. “You here for the crabs?” he asked solemnly, as though we were discussing national security. His name was Alfie, and he explained that the best spot was under the pier if you went at low tide and didn’t mind the seagulls nicking your bait. He also warned me, quite gravely, that the ice-cream van by the clock tower sometimes ran out of flakes on Sundays. I thanked him and promised not to tell anyone else.

By teatime I’d met the woman who owned the chippy too—Maureen, who insisted I try her mushy peas because “they’re proper, not that tinned rubbish.” She asked where I was from, then told me Scarborough people could always spot a southerner by how they said “bath.” I must have looked a bit sheepish, because she softened and slipped an extra portion of chips into my bag “for being a good sport.”

Sitting on the low wall outside the cottage that evening, watching the last of the light slide off the sea, I realised the journey mishap had done me a favour. Without the hedge and the wrong turning I might never have slowed down enough to meet any of them. The cottage itself was only half the story; the rest was Linda’s dryer advice, Alfie’s fishing tips and Maureen’s peas, all handed over like small, ordinary treasures. I still hadn’t managed a proper walk along the front, but somehow I already felt I’d arrived.