We’d barely got the key in the door of Railway House before the heavens opened, and of course that’s when I realised I’d left the brolly on the train. Typical. The short walk from Scarborough station had been pleasant enough—sun on our faces, the kids skipping ahead with their buckets—but the moment we turned onto the little lane behind the beach, the sky decided to test us. By the time we’d wrestled the suitcases inside, we were all laughing and dripping, the youngest declaring it “proper seaside weather already.”

Railway House sits just far enough from the front to feel tucked away, yet close enough that you can hear the waves if you leave the bedroom window open at night. First impressions were all about the light: big windows letting in that soft grey glow you only seem to get on the Yorkshire coast, and a cosy living room that immediately made us kick off our shoes. The kettle went on while we explored, and within minutes we’d claimed our spots—the eldest on the squashy sofa, me at the scrubbed pine table, already planning where everything would live for the week.

Once the rain eased we wandered the few minutes down to the beach, shoes in hand, toes testing the cool sand. The kids raced straight for the rock pools while my partner and I found a sheltered spot against the wall, watching the waves roll in and out. There’s something wonderfully uncomplicated about it—no need for grand plans, just the rhythm of the tide and the occasional shout when someone spots a crab. Back at the cottage, sandy feet were rinsed at the little outdoor tap, and we spread everything out to dry on the radiator, already looking like we’d lived there for days rather than hours.

That first evening we kept things simple: fish and chips from the place on the corner, eaten at the kitchen table with the door propped open to let in the evening air. The children fell asleep quickly, tired from the journey and the sea air, while we sat with a cuppa and listened to the quiet. I caught myself smiling at how quickly the cottage had started to feel like ours—muddy wellies by the door, a half-read book left open on the arm of the chair, the faint smell of vinegar still lingering.

It struck me, as I turned off the lights, how little it takes sometimes: a short train ride, a slightly soggy arrival, and suddenly you remember what a proper family break is meant to feel like. Nothing fancy, just space to breathe and the sea a stone’s throw away.