We’d barely made it out of the car at Castle View when the first mishap struck. I’d confidently swung the boot open, only for a rogue gust off the sea to snatch my favourite cap and send it tumbling straight into a puddle. There it lay, soggy and forlorn, while my partner laughed and the cottage itself seemed to chuckle behind its neat stone walls. Still, the view from the doorstep made up for any soaked headwear: a sweep of green fields rolling down to the cliffs, and the North Sea glittering just beyond.

Scarborough’s cliffs are a walker’s dream, and the moment we’d unpacked we laced up our boots for the obvious choice—an easy cliff-top stroll south along the Cleveland Way. The path hugs the edge so closely you can hear the waves slapping the rocks below, and on a sunny afternoon like ours the breeze carried the tang of salt and seaweed. We stopped every few minutes to peer over the railings at hidden coves and the occasional seal bobbing offshore.

Half an hour in, the British weather decided to remind us who’s boss. A fat grey cloud rolled in from nowhere, and within minutes fat droplets were spattering the path. We ducked under a handy gorse bush, sharing a slightly squashed flapjack while the shower passed, then carried on with damp shoulders and big grins. By the time we reached the outskirts of Burniston village the sun had reappeared, turning every raindrop on the grass into tiny diamonds.

Back at the cottage that evening, toes pleasantly sore, we sat on the little patio with mugs of tea and watched the sky shift from peach to deep indigo. The mishap with the cap felt like an inside joke already, and the sudden shower had somehow made the walk feel more like an adventure than a setback. Tomorrow we planned to head north instead, following the same coastal path toward Cloughton, but for now it was enough to listen to the distant hush of the tide and feel quietly grateful that even when the weather changes its mind, the cliffs and the sea are still right there, waiting.