I’ll never forget the drive up to that little holiday spot near Scarborough – satnav had me convinced I was heading into the moors for good after it decided to take us down a single-track lane that was more puddle than path. We’d packed the car with enough crisps and tea bags to last a siege, the dog whining from the boot, when suddenly we hit a massive pothole. Splash! Mud everywhere, and my other half yelling, “That’s it, we’re turning back!” But we pressed on, and as we crested the hill into Suffield, the tension melted away. There it was: this cosy retreat tucked away in the North York Moors, off-road parking gleaming like a promise of peace. First impressions? Spot on – ground-floor double with a telly for lazy brekkies, and that mezzanine bedroom upstairs feeling like a secret hideaway. Perfect for us lot, pets included.

No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered down to the village pub, The Fox and Hounds, for a pint. That’s where I met Madge, the landlady with a laugh like a foghorn and stories to match. “You from down south, eh?” she winked, pulling a perfect head on my bitter. Over the next few days, she became our unofficial guide, regaling us with tales of the local scarecrow festival – apparently Suffield’s lot make ones funnier than the telly comedians. “Last year’s winner had a pint in hand and a sign saying ‘On the wagon’,” she cackled. We chatted about the moors walks, her warning us off the boggy bits near Scaleby Hill: “One slip and you’re in up to your arse!” Cheeky, but spot on – we stuck to the drier paths and spotted deer instead of sinking.

Next day, strolling to the nearby coastal path for that bracing Scarborough sea air, we bumped into Old Ted at the post office. He’s the sort who’s lived there since the war, leaning on his stick with eyes twinkling. “Holidays, is it? You want the real Scarborough, none of that donkey ride nonsense on the beach. Up here, it’s the smugglers’ caves and the ghosts in the abbey ruins.” He sketched a dodgy map on a fag packet, pointing out hidden spots within a mile or two. Turned out he’d fished those waters as a lad, and before we knew it, we were swapping yarns about his escape from a bull on the common. “Ran like Usain Bolt, I did – at 80!” Proper character, Ted was, and his tips led us to a cracking picnic spot overlooking the cliffs, where the dog chased imaginary rabbits.

Even the butcher down the lane, cheeky Derek with his apron smeared in fat, got in on the act. “Fancy some local lamb for your tea? None of your supermarket rubbish.” We ended up with chops that tasted of the moors themselves, and he wouldn’t stop about his feud with the seagulls: “Bloody pirates, pinching my pasties!” We laughed till our sides hurt.

Staying there made me reflect a bit – in the rush of city life, you forget how a natter with proper folk recharges the batteries. No screens, just stories and that fresh air. Those quirky locals turned a simple break into something dead special. Can’t wait to go back and hear what Madge has cooked up next.