We’d barely pulled off the A64 when the sat-nav decided to play silly beggars and sent us down a narrow lane that ended in someone’s driveway. After a five-point turn that left tyre marks on their lawn and me apologising through the window, we finally rolled up to Station House just as the sea mist lifted. The little terraced cottage sits a short stroll from the South Bay, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of fresh paint and the sea made the detour instantly forgivable.

First order of business was food, naturally. We dumped the bags and wandered straight into town, following the scent of frying fish until we reached the harbour. At one of the little stalls by the fish market we grabbed two portions of battered cod and chips wrapped in paper, the batter still crackling when we tore it open on a bench overlooking the boats. The chips were proper thick-cut ones, doused in enough salt and vinegar to make your lips sting in the best way.

That evening we tried cooking in the compact kitchen. I’d picked up some local sausages and a tub of mushy peas from a butcher on Eastborough, planning a quick fry-up. Halfway through, the smoke alarm decided our efforts were a fire hazard and we ended up eating slightly charred bangers on the tiny patio while the extractor fan wheezed like an old accordion. We laughed it off with a bottle of local ale from the corner shop, watching the lights come on along the promenade.

Next morning we headed to the weekly market near the train station. Stalls groaned with fresh crab, smoked haddock, and fat Yorkshire rapeseed loaves. We bought a couple of crab sandwiches and ate them leaning against the railings, mayo dripping onto our shoes. Later, seeking something heartier, we ducked into a cosy pub just off the high street. Their Sunday roast came with Yorkshire puddings the size of saucers and gravy dark enough to stain your tongue. I may have overdone the horseradish; the ensuing coughing fit drew sympathetic nods from the regulars.

By the third night we’d settled into a rhythm: morning pastries from the bakery on the corner, a quick beach walk to build an appetite, then back to the cottage to attempt something more ambitious than sausages. My attempt at a seafood chowder turned out more like a thin soup with ambitious chunks, but we mopped it up with the market bread and declared it a triumph of optimism over skill.

What struck me most, though, was how easily food anchored everything. The mishap on the drive had set a tone of cheerful imperfection, and each meal—whether from a paper bag or our own slightly smoky hob—felt like a small celebration of being exactly where we were. Scarborough might be famous for its beach and big wheel, but for us it became a place measured in fish suppers, market queues, and the gentle disaster of trying to cook with the windows open to stop the alarm.