I finally made it to Scarborough after a bit of a faff on the journey up from Leeds. The sat-nav decided to have a hissy fit just outside Whitby, sending me down a winding B-road that felt like it was auditioning for a horror film – narrow lanes, sheep everywhere, and me white-knuckling the wheel while muttering about why I didn't just take the train. But as I crested the hill into town, there it was: the sea sparkling under a proper Yorkshire sky, cliffs glowing golden, and that buzz of holidaymakers milling about. My heart did a little flip – this was going to be mint.

Pulled up to the holiday let, a cracking terraced house done up to a high standard, all cosy and inviting with loads of thoughtful touches. Stepped inside and whoosh – great first impressions. Tall ceilings, bay windows flooding the place with light, perfect for flopping in the sitting room later. The kitchen was a dream: sleek granite worktops, onyx tiles that didn't show a smudge, dishwasher, extra fridge space – everything you need to pretend you're Gordon Ramsay without the shouting.

First order of business? Food, obviously. Unpacked my veg box from the Scarborough market – I'd stopped at the Wednesday one on Valley Bridge Road on the way in, grabbing fresh crab from the stalls, local cheeses, and a punnet of fat strawberries that tasted like summer. Fired up that contemporary kitchen for a crack at seafood linguine. Chopping garlic, tossing in chilli flakes, and sloshing white wine from a bottle nabbed at the offy – it turned out half decent, though I might've overcooked the pasta a tad. Laughed at myself over a glass: here I am, middle-aged and still burning edges like a proper amateur. Poured into bowls, we tucked in at the dining table, windows open to the sound of gulls.

Next morning, ambled down to the harbour for breakfast at The Copper Horse, one of those no-nonsense cafes where the bacon butties come thicker than your thumb and the tea's strong enough to stand a spoon in. Chips on the beach after, salty and perfect, watching families build sandcastles on South Bay. Lunch was fish and chips from the proper place on the front – golden batter, mushy peas on the side, eaten on a bench overlooking the waves. Proper Scarborough that.

Evenings were pub central. Strolled to The Cask in town for pints of Black Sheep and pie that flaked apart just right, gravy rich as you like. Another night, The Marquess of Granby for their Sunday roast – massive Yorkshire puds piled with beef, veg from local farms, and trimmings that had us groaning in delight. Back at the house, attempted a crumble with market rhubarb; sticky, sweet, served warm with custard from the pantry stash. The hot tub beckoned after, bubbles and a cheeky nightcap, reflecting on how daft it is that I don't do this more often – life's too short for rubbish ready meals.

One last hurrah: market again for pork pies and fudge, then a curry from Raj Tandoori takeaway, eaten cross-legged in the sitting room with a movie on. Scarborough's food scene had me sorted – fresh, hearty, unpretentious. Left fatter, happier, and already plotting the next trip. What a belter.