We’d barely turned off the A64 when the satnav decided to have a proper meltdown, cheerfully directing us down a lane that ended in someone’s driveway. After a polite chat with a chap in his pyjamas and a three-point turn that took out a rhododendron, we finally pulled up outside Yardley Manor just as the rain decided it fancied a quick go at horizontal. The cottage sat right at the edge of the South Bay, a short stroll from the sands, and the moment we stepped inside the smell of salt and old wood hit us like a friendly slap.

First job was unpacking the food shop we’d grabbed on the way in—fresh Whitby crab from a stall near the harbour, a crusty loaf from the market on Eastborough, and enough local sausages to feed a small rugby team. The kitchen was tiny but perfectly judged; one hob worked a treat, the other seemed to have strong opinions, so we stuck to what we knew. I’d promised a proper crab linguine for supper and, after a bit of rummaging, found a pan that looked up to the job. Ten minutes later the place smelled like an Italian trattoria that had taken a wrong turn at Filey.

We ate at the little table by the window, watching the tide creep in while the crab fought a losing battle with our forks. The next morning we wandered down to the market again, this time for kippers and a couple of fat Bramley apples for a crumble. The fishmonger gave us a wink and an extra mackerel “for the cat we probably didn’t have,” and we carried our paper parcels back along the prom like prizes. By midday the kitchen was full of smoke and optimism; the crumble bubbled away happily while the mackerel refused to behave in the grill pan, resulting in a slightly charred but oddly delicious lunch.

Evenings were spent in the pubs within walking distance. The Lord Nelson on the corner poured a decent pint of local ale and did a cracking fish pie that we sampled twice—once out of curiosity, once because the rain had set in and we’d forgotten an umbrella. On our last night we tried the chippy on the front, eating from paper at a bench while seagulls performed low-level reconnaissance. Back at the cottage we attempted a late-night cheese toastie using whatever was left in the fridge; it came out half melted, half welded to the grill, but we ate it anyway, laughing at our own kitchen disasters.

Sitting there with sand still in my shoes and the smell of burnt cheese in the air, I realised the best bit hadn’t been the perfect meals at all—it was the small disasters that made the place feel properly ours for a few days.