We set off from York on a Friday morning with the vague plan of “getting there before the traffic builds,” which of course meant we were queuing behind a caravan by eleven. By the time we trundled into Scarborough the sat-nav had given up and sent us down a lane so narrow our wing mirror kissed a garden wall. I hopped out to check we hadn’t left a streak of paint behind, and that was when the chap next door appeared, tea mug in hand, announcing, “You’ll not get much further unless you reverse like you mean it.” His name was Reg, and within thirty seconds he’d taken the keys, executed a perfect three-point turn, and handed them back with the verdict that southerners always overthink parking.

Seacrest Lodge sat just across the road from the sand, its white gate slightly ajar as if it had been expecting us. The smell of frying onions drifted from an open window two doors down, and before we’d even carried the first bag inside, a woman in a cardigan and slippers wandered over to ask if we liked rock. Not the geological sort—proper sticks of the stuff with our names piped down the middle. She introduced herself as Maureen and promised her Frank could get them wholesale if we were staying more than three nights. We assured her we were, and she wandered off humming the chorus to “Summer Holiday.”

Inside, the cottage felt exactly like the photographs: low ceilings, a slightly lopsided sofa, and a kitchen table big enough for a proper fry-up. We were still admiring the view of the bay when Reg reappeared, this time with a trowel, to inform us that the tide would be right for crab lines at six. He offered to lend us a bucket “so long as you bring it back with something in it.” We promised we would, though neither of us had the first clue what we were doing.

Later, while we were unpacking, Maureen popped her head round the open door again with a plate of still-warm scones. She stayed for a cuppa and told us about the year the donkeys went on strike because the new lad kept calling them by the wrong names. Frank, apparently, had refereed the whole dispute from his deckchair. By the time she left we’d learnt half the promenade by first name and promised to wave whenever we passed the rock shop.

That evening we sat on the low wall outside with mugs of tea, watching the lights come on along the seafront. I caught myself wondering how many other visitors had arrived intending to “keep themselves to themselves” only to be adopted by the neighbourhood within an hour. Scarborough, it seemed, had its own quiet way of making sure you didn’t stay strangers for long.