We'd barely made it past York when the satnav decided to have a proper meltdown, rerouting us three times through the same roundabout until my other half threatened to throw it out the window. By the time we pulled up outside the 4 Bed Cottage in Scarborough, the boot was half-open, the dog had claimed the front seat, and we were both starving. The cottage sat just a short walk from the beach, its windows catching the late afternoon light, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of old wood and sea air felt oddly welcoming after the chaos of the drive.

First things first, we needed food. The fridge was empty, so we wandered down to the nearest shop for the basics—bread, eggs, a packet of sausages that looked promising. Back at the cottage I tried my hand at a proper fry-up, which promptly turned into a smoky disaster when the extractor fan refused to work. We ended up eating slightly charred sausages on the doorstep, watching the tide come in and laughing at how quickly a simple plan had gone sideways.

The next morning we headed straight for the local market near the harbour. Stalls were piled with fresh fish, crusty loaves, and those little Yorkshire puddings already filled and ready to eat. We bought a couple of crab sandwiches and ate them on a bench overlooking the water, the seagulls eyeing us like professional opportunists. Later we popped into The Ship, a proper old pub just off the main drag, where the fish and chips came with mushy peas that actually tasted homemade. The portions were generous enough that we had to share, and the pint of local ale went down far too easily for a weekday.

By evening we were back at the cottage attempting something fancier—a creamy seafood pasta using the crab meat we'd saved from lunch. It wasn't exactly Michelin-star stuff, but it felt like a small victory after the sausage incident. We ate it at the kitchen table with the windows open, listening to the waves and feeling oddly content with our simple holiday rhythm.

The following day we tried the pie shop on the high street, where the steak and ale pies were still warm from the oven. We took them back to the cottage garden and ate them with our fingers like children, washing them down with supermarket lemonade. It wasn't glamorous, but there was something comforting about the whole routine—waking up, foraging for food, cooking badly, then eating out when our confidence failed.

Looking back, those first few days were less about the cottage itself and more about the small rituals we fell into around meals. The mishaps with the cooker and the over-ambitious pasta became part of the story, little reminders that holidays don't need to be perfect to feel worthwhile.