I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – we’d piled into the car with the dog, bags stuffed in every nook, and the sat-nav decided to throw a proper wobbly just past York. It rerouted us down some winding B-road that felt like it was leading to Narnia, and before we knew it, we were lost in a fog of sheep and narrow lanes. A quick stop at a tiny farm shop for directions (and a cheeky flapjack) sorted it, but by the time we rolled up, hearts racing a bit, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation. What lay ahead?

Pulling up to this cracking four-storey house near the beach, my first impressions were spot on – it looked like the perfect bolt-hole for our big family gang and the two polite pooches. Ground-floor living made it dead easy to settle in, and spotting the roadside parking spots (permit sorted) was a relief after the drive. Inside, it was all cosiness with an electric fire flickering away, and that hot tub out back screaming "relaxation time". We dumped the bags and headed straight to the basement playroom for a round of Monopoly while supper bubbled on the massive gas range – eight burners, double oven, the lot. Proper home from home.

But the real magic of Scarborough kicked off the next day when we ditched the usual tourist traps and let curiosity lead. Aimless wander from the house took us down a sneaky path behind the beach, away from the donkey rides and chip stalls, and blimey, we stumbled on this hidden cove at Cornelian Bay. Tucked under crumbling cliffs, it was dead quiet – just us, the dogs splashing in rock pools, and seals bobbing offshore like nosy neighbours. No crowds, no fuss; we picnicked on crab sandwiches from a nearby unassuming shack we’d found by accident. Felt like we’d gatecrashed paradise.

Next morning, fancying a proper mooch, we got lost again (my speciality) heading towards the ol’ town. Instead of the main drag, we veered off onto steps leading to a forgotten garden spot overlooking the bay – turns out it’s one of those secret olive groves planted by some eccentric Victorian, now overgrown with herbs and wildflowers. We foraged a bit of rosemary for roasties back at the house, laughing at how daft it was. The kids loved it, turning it into a treasure hunt, and I had a quiet moment reflecting on how these unplanned detours beat any itinerary. Life’s too short for maps sometimes, eh?

Evenings were bliss – hot tub under the stars after traipsing hidden coastal paths near Long Nab, where we found a smugglers’ cave half-buried in dunes, echoey and eerie. One night, supper in the fully kitted kitchen turned into a board-game marathon downstairs, dogs snoring nearby. Scarborough’s got this knack for those off-the-beaten-path gems if you let yourself get lost – a pebble beach no one mentions, a wildflower meadow by the cliffs. It wasn’t the postcard holiday, but the kind that sticks, full of daft mishaps and proper joy. Can’t wait to go back and lose ourselves again.