I’ll never forget the drive up to Scarborough – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but halfway there, just past Whitby, the sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis and sent us on a scenic detour through some narrow lanes that had me white-knuckling the wheel. “This better be worth it,” I muttered, as rain started spitting on the windscreen. But as we crested the hill into town, the sea sparkled like a promise, and my heart lifted. Scarborough’s got that magic, doesn’t it? All colourful fronts and that bracing North Sea air.

Pulling up to our holiday spot on a quiet street near Peasholm Park was pure relief. It’s this gorgeous former hotel turned cosy group pad, all warm and inviting, overlooking those manicured lawns. First impressions? Spot on. We tumbled in, dumped the bags, and straight into the sitting room for a proper brew – builder’s tea, none of your fancy herbal nonsense. The place felt like a hug from an old mate.

Food was the star of our stay, no question. That first evening, we raided the sizeable fridge and got stuck into the country kitchen with its modern gadgets. I fancied myself as a chef, whipping up a shepherd’s pie with spuds from the local market we’d spotted on the way in. Scarborough’s markets are a dream – we hit the Scarborough Market on Westborough the next morning, haggling over fresh crab from the fishermen’s stalls and plump tomatoes that smelled like summer. Grabbed some Whitby scampi too, proper golden stuff, and a load of local cheeses that could make you weep.

Pub grub took centre stage after that. We wandered down to the North Bay area, just a short stroll, and piled into The Rosette Inn for fish and chips that were crispy perfection – none of that soggy batter malarkey. The portions were massive, and with a pint of bitter to wash it down, it was heaven. Later, we tried our hand at a group curry night back at the house. I chopped onions till my eyes streamed (note to self: invest in goggles next time), while mates manned the hob, turning out a korma and a vindaloo using spices from the market. It was a right laugh, though my efforts came out more like spicy soup – gentle reminder that I’m better at eating than cooking.

Evenings blurred into pub crawls along the harbour. The Magellan was a fave – their seafood platters with mussels and prawns straight off the boats, served with crusty bread and a cheeky garlic mayo. We’d linger over sticky toffee pudding, chatting rubbish till closing. One night, stuffed from a roast at The Cask, I had that quiet moment on the balcony, park lights twinkling below, thinking how these simple feeds with loved ones beat any posh nosh. No hen or stag chaos here, just us lot, bellies full and content.

Scarborough’s food scene is unpretentious gold – markets buzzing with Yorkshire pies, pubs slinging hearty plates, and our kitchen experiments keeping the giggles going. We left fatter, happier, and already plotting the next trip. If you’re after a feed-focused getaway, this is your spot.