I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Whitby, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a sheep field. Typical me, hadn’t checked the signal, so there we were, reversing out with mud splattering the tyres, laughing like idiots. But oh, the anticipation built as we finally crested the hill into Scarborough, the sea sparkling below like it was rolling out the red carpet.

Pulling up to this cracking large semi-detached house perched on the coast in North Yorkshire, I was chuffed to bits. Five off-road parking spots right there – no faffing about with meters – and we piled in to find a sumptuously decorated sitting room with velvet sofas begging us to flop down with a glass of wine and flick on the telly. There’s even a snug at the back with a corner sofa and another TV for when you fancy hiding from the rabble. It sleeps up to 16, three storeys of pure holiday bliss, and dead close to all those seaside gems along The Cleveland Way.

We were a big group, mates and families, and from the off, we ditched the usual Peasholm Park and Valley Gardens malarkey. Nah, we wanted the proper Scarborough secrets, the ones you stumble on when you take a wrong turn. First morning, I wandered off from the house down Columbus Ravine, aiming for the beach but veering left onto a scruffy path that hugged the cliffs. Ended up at this hidden cove – barely a soul there, just pebbles crunching underfoot and seals barking out at sea. Felt like I’d nicked a bit of the coastline for meself. Sat there with a thermos of tea, reflecting on how I never slow down at home, always rushing. That quiet spot forced me to breathe, you know?

Later, the lot of us got properly lost on The Cleveland Way, missing the signs for South Cliff and tumbling down to Weaponness Valley. What a find! Tucked away meadows with wildflowers nodding in the breeze, and a tiny café run by this old chap who makes the best crab sarnies from pots landed that morning. We picnicked under the trees, kids charging about, and it was pure magic – no crowds, just us and the gulls. One evening, faffing about near the house, we discovered a secret stretch of beach below the ravine, accessible by a wonky set of steps half-hidden by gorse. Waves crashing, sand soft as anything, and we built epic castles till dusk. Light humour in the air when my other half slipped on seaweed – “Graceful as a walrus, love!” I teased.

Even a rainy afternoon led us astray up past the golf course to a forgotten Victorian bandstand, echoey and empty, perfect for a singalong with flasks of soup. Scarborough’s got this knack for rewarding the wanderers – those off-the-beaten-track nooks that make you feel like a local. Staying here, you’re right in the heart of it, steps from the magic. Can’t wait to go back and lose meself all over again.