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 down a muddy farm track. We ended up bumping along like extras in a dodgy episode of Last of the Summer Wine, me swearing under my breath (well, almost) while the kids giggled in the back. But as we finally rolled into town, the sun cracked through, glinting off the sea, and my heart lifted. Scarborough’s that kind of place – it reels you in with its cheeky charm.

Pulling up to this grand Edwardian property, just a stone’s throw from the bustle, I was buzzing with that first-holiday anticipation: sandy toes, chippy teas, the works. It’s a beauty, all sash windows and high ceilings blending old-school elegance with modern touches – perfect for our big family rabble. We tumbled in, dumped the bags, and straight away flopped on those inviting sofas in the massive living room, flicking on the telly to catch the footy while the little ones dashed about.

What made it, though, weren’t the fancy fittings – it was the locals. First off, there was Madge from the corner shop down the road, a wiry septuagenarian with a perm like a startled hedgehog and stories for days. I popped in for milk and came out with a full rundown on the best chip stall (Peasholm’s, apparently, none of your rubbish). “You lot from down south?” she squinted, eyeing my trainers. “Up here, we walk the cliffs proper-like, none of your promenading.” I laughed, promising we’d give it a go, and she slipped me a free Flake for the kids. Proper character.

Then, at the beach the next day – North Bay, with its paddling pools and that brilliant pirate ship play area – we met Terry, the ice cream man who’d been vending there since the ark. Face like a wrinkled walnut, voice like gravel after too many Woodbines. “First time in Scarbs?” he barked as I queued for 99s. Turned out he’d fished these waters back when the herrings ran thick as thieves. We got chatting about the donkey rides – “Don’t let ‘em fool ya, those beasts are tougher than they look” – and he reckoned the best fish and chips were at Jackson’s, where the batter’s so crisp it sings. The kids were mesmerised; he even did a magic trick with a Cornetto wrapper.

Evening brought us to the smaller living room for a breather, me nursing a cuppa, reflecting on how I’d been proper frazzled at work lately. Holidays like this? They reset you. But the real gem was bumping into old Reg at the Italian job down by the harbour – a retired trawlerman with a laugh like a foghorn. Over lasagne, he regaled us with tales of smuggling contraband (well, contraband fudge, he winked) and how the castle ruins up the hill “whisper secrets if you listen right at dusk.” Quirky doesn’t cover it; the man had us in stitches about seagulls pinching his sandwiches – “Cheeky beggars, trained by the council!”

Scarborough’s full of these folk – salt-of-the-earth types who turn a holiday into a proper yarn. We wandered the Valley Gardens, chatted with a flower seller who swore her roses bloomed brighter thanks to “Yorkshire grit,” and even shared a bench with a couple of OAPs dissecting the latest council row over the Open Air Theatre. It’s their banter that sticks – warm, wry, and wonderfully nosy. Left me pondering: maybe us city slickers could do with a dash more of that. Best trip ever.