I’ll never forget the drive up to Burniston last month – we’d piled into the car from Leeds with the kids buzzing about fish and chips on the beach, only for me to take a wrong turn just past Whitby and end up faffing about on some narrow moorland lane. The satnav went into a right huff, chirping “recalculating” like it was personally offended, and we arrived an hour late, knackered but laughing. Still, as we pulled up to this stylish holiday home on the edge of the village – a proper gem for our group of eight, all cosy and inviting – the stress melted away. Stepping into that welcoming hallway, coats off and shoes kicked aside, it felt like instant home. The open-plan kitchen/diner was a dream, all calm neutrals and chic cream units with oak worktops, gleaming appliances begging us to whip up a feast. First impressions? Spot on.

But honestly, the real magic of the trip wasn’t the views or the range cooker – it was the characters we met, those quirky locals who turned our stay into a proper yarn. Take old Geoff from the village shop down the road. We nipped in on day one for milk and papers, and he clocked our southern plates straight away. “You lot from down south, eh? Come for the sea air or to escape the traffic?” he grinned, his teeth like a wonky picket fence. Turned out he’d fished off Scalby Mills his whole life, regaling us with tales of seals pinching his catch. “Cheeky buggers, bolder than the tourists!” We ended up chatting for half an hour about his glory days entering the Yorkshire pudding boat race in Scarborough – yes, really, pies bobbing in the harbour. The kids were in stitches.

Then there was Maggie at the Burniston tearoom, a tiny spot overlooking the coast path. She’s this whirlwind of a pensioner with a perm like a halo and stories for days. “Sit yerselves down, loves,” she trilled, plonking down scones thicker than my uncle’s eyebrows. Over cream tea, she spilled the beans on village life: the annual scarecrow festival where folks go mad crafting ones dressed as vicars or Daleks, and how the moors fog rolls in like a sneaky ghost. “Keeps the trippers away,” she winked. We got the lowdown on the best clifftop walks to Scarborough’s North Bay, her tip being to time it for the seals barking at low tide. Pure gold – we followed her advice and it was magical, wind whipping our faces as we spotted them lounging on the rocks.

Even at the local pub, The Oak Wheel down in the village, we bumped into Dave the postman, nursing a pint and holding court about his paper round. “Covered these moors since I was a lad,” he boasted, eyes twinkling. “Seen foxes bigger than Labradors and hikers who’ve lost their bloomin’ wellies in bogs.” His tales of Scarborough’s Peasholm Park naval battles – toy boats blasting away on the lake – had us planning a family outing the next day. We did, and it was brilliant, kids cheering like it was the real Armada.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, I realise those chats were the heart of the holiday. In a world of screens, stumbling on folks like Geoff, Maggie and Dave – full of mischief and local lore – reminded me why we escape to places like this. No fancy itineraries needed; just good company and a bit of Yorkshire banter. We’re already plotting a return.