I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past York, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a scenic detour through some sodding great puddles. We were in the old estate car, crammed with cool boxes and enough tinnies to sink a ship, cursing under our breath as the North York Moors loomed misty in the distance. But by the time we crested that hill and spotted the sea glinting below, all was forgiven. Scarborough looked proper inviting, all cliffs and candy-striped charm, and I could practically smell the chip fat from a mile off.

Pulling up to this impressive new eleven-bedroom place – a proper grand old villa in a cracking spot right in the heart of town – my heart did a little flip. It’s the sort of holiday let that screams family reunion or mates’ blowout, with enviable sea views and enough space to lose half the group in. First impressions? Spot on. We tumbled in, bags everywhere, and straight away I was eyeing up that massive kitchen, dreaming of feasts ahead.

Food’s what holidays are all about for me, innit? We kicked off with a wander to the Italian market on Huntriss Row – none of your fancy farmers’ market bollocks, just proper stalls groaning under olives, cheeses, and slabs of focaccia that could feed an army. I loaded up on chorizo, fresh pasta, and a wheel of manchego that nearly broke my arm. Back at the villa, with eleven bedrooms to fill, we were fourteen strong, so cooking became a democratic disaster. I nobly volunteered for spag bol duty, but somehow managed to overseason it with chilli flakes – turned out spicy enough to strip paint. Everyone politely choked it down, laughing as I fanned my mouth like a dragon. Gentle reminder to self: stick to grating the cheese next time.

Next day, we hit the pubs for elevenses that stretched to lunch. The Cask in Valley Gardens did cracking fish and chips – golden batter, mushy peas on point, and a pint of Black Sheep that slid down a treat. Scarborough’s got that unpretentious vibe; no pretentious gastropubs here, just proper boozers slinging pies and real ales. Evenings were villa central: one night, we attempted a seafood extravaganza after grabbing crab and prawns from the harbour stalls. Steamed them in the massive range cooker, slathered in garlic butter, with crusty bread from the market. It was lush, though my mate Dave nearly set fire to the tea towels in the chaos. Washed down with local Whitby gin cocktails – who knew Scarborough had such a scene?

We ventured to The Magpie for Sunday roast – massive Yorkshire puds, crackling that sang, and gravy you could swim in. Wandered back via the Old Town’s chippy trail, debating the best batter (pro tip: crispier at the bottom end of the street). One rainy afternoon, holed up with pasties from the bakery on North Street, playing cards till our fingers were greasy. Self-reflection hit mid-week: amid the gluttony, I realised it’s these daft, food-fuelled gatherings that recharge the batteries – no gym guilt, just pure, unadulterated noshing with loved ones.

Left fatter, happier, and already plotting the next trip. Scarborough’s a feeder’s paradise – get yourself there.