I finally made it to Scarborough after a bit of a faff on the journey up from Leeds. I'd set off full of beans, dreaming of fish and chips by the sea, but then the sat-nav decided to play silly buggers and sent me down a narrow lane that turned into a dead end with a cow staring me down. Heart in mouth, I reversed like a pro (well, almost) and got back on track, arriving just as the sun dipped low over the bay. Pulling up to this cosy terraced holiday cottage with its classic whitewashed front and sea glimpses from the upstairs windows, I was chuffed to bits – first impressions spot on, like it was waiting just for me.

Stepping inside, the place had that perfect home-from-home vibe, compact kitchen gleaming and ready for action. I dumped my bags and headed straight out for a nose around the local spots, stomach rumbling. Scarborough's got this brilliant buzz around food, especially down by the harbour where the markets kick off early. First morning, I wandered to the Newlands Market, just a short stroll away, and loaded up on fresh crab, plump prawns, and some proper Yorkshire cheeses – none of your supermarket rubbish. Bargain hunters paradise, that place; I haggled a bit with the fishmonger and came away grinning like an idiot with enough for days.

Back at the cottage, I fancied myself as a bit of a chef. Boiled up some of those crabs with butter and lemon – messy business, cracking shells everywhere, but oh my word, the taste was divine, sweet and briny straight from the sea. Paired it with crusty bread from the bakery round the corner. Not bad for a city lad, though I did burn the garlic bread slightly – gentle reminder that I'm no MasterChef. Laughed it off with a cuppa, reflecting on how these little fails make holidays memorable, don't they? Beats slaving over a hot stove at home any day.

Evenings were for the pubs, proper locals packed with chatter. The first night, I hit the Eagle Taps just up the road, where the ale was crisp and cold – went for a pint of Black Sheep and their haddock and chips, golden batter flaking off, peas mushy just right. Next door's the Roscoe Head for a change, cosy nook with pie specials that hit the spot after a bracing cliff-top walk. One evening, I tried my hand at a cottage supper: scavenged smoked kippers from the market, grilled them up with scrambled eggs. Smelt like heaven filling the place, though the smoke alarm gave me a right beeping lecture midway. Shared a laugh with fellow holidaymakers at the next table in the pub later, swapping tales of kitchen disasters.

Couldn't leave without a full-on chippy feast from the Harbour Bar – curry sauce dripping, the works, eaten on a bench watching the waves. Markets every day kept us stocked: fudge stalls tempting (resisted, mostly), sausage rolls for snacks, and endless seafood. It was all about that rhythm – graze at markets, cook simple, pub crawl home. Scarborough's food scene wrapped around you like a warm scarf; left me stuffed, happy, and plotting the next trip. Proper tonic for the soul.