I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough last summer – me behind the wheel of our battered old Fiesta, sat-nav insisting we were nearly there, when suddenly it lost signal right in the middle of some twisty B-road near the moors. Cue a proper faff: we ended up looping back on ourselves twice, arguing over a crumpled map while the kids in the back whinged about needing the loo. But honestly, that little mishap turned into a blessing. By the time we rolled into town, hearts racing with that fizzy anticipation of holiday freedom, the sun was dipping low over the sea, painting everything golden. We were buzzing.

The property was a cosy terraced cottage tucked away in the quieter end of Valley Road, all welcoming with its fresh paint and sea glimpses from the top windows. First impressions? Spot on. It felt like stepping into someone’s lovely home – mismatched cushions, a well-stocked kitchen, and that faint whiff of salt air sneaking through the cracks. We dumped the bags and cracked open a round of tea, already plotting our escape from the usual tourist traps.

Scarborough’s got its famous spots, don’t get me wrong – the beach, the castle – but I’m all about those hidden gems you stumble on by accident. First morning, we decided to “get lost” on purpose, wandering off the beaten path behind the South Cliff instead of heading straight for the promenade. What a find! We ended up in this overgrown wooded ravine, proper wild and secret, with trickling streams and ferns brushing our knees. The kids went feral, building stick forts while we picnicked on cheese butties. No crowds, just birdsong and the distant crash of waves. Felt like we’d nicked a bit of the Yorkshire countryside smack in the middle of town.

Next day, same vibe. Aiming for the Spa, we veered wrong into the maze of alleys off Falsgrave Road – total fluke. Stumbled on a tucked-away Italian deli that’s been there donkey’s years, run by this cheery chap who loaded us up with fresh focaccia and olives for pennies. Then, pushing further, we discovered Coronation Gardens, this serene little park with wonky paths and benches overlooking hidden coves. Sat there for hours, watching joggers and dog-walkers, feeling miles from anywhere. Got properly lost again weaving back through the olive groves – sorry, olive trees in someone’s back garden – but it led to a cliff-edge viewpoint we’d never have clocked otherwise, with seals barking below.

Evenings were magic too. One dusk, faffing about near the North Bay, we slipped down a unmarked path into a pebbly inlet called Scampo – or something dead close – where the water glowed like liquid fire at low tide. Roasted marshmallows on a disposable BBQ, laughing as the wind whipped our hair. Pure joy.

Looking back, that self-inflicted getting-lost lark was the holiday’s heartbeat. In our rush-a-day lives, we rarely switch off the sat-nav, do we? This trip reminded me: sometimes the best memories hide down the wrong turn. Scarborough’s full of ’em if you let yourself wander. We’re booking again next year – same cottage, more mischief.