I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby – we’d piled into the car with enough snacks to feed an army, but about halfway there, just past Scarborough, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down some tiny lane that barely qualified as a road. The car was scraping hedges, and I was convinced we’d end up in a field, but we laughed it off with a round of “should’ve gone left at the lights” and eventually popped out right by the coast. By then, the anticipation was buzzing – that salty sea air wafting in, promising fish and chips and proper seaside grub.

Pulling up to this cracking terraced house near the beach, my first impression was spot on: it looked like the perfect base for our big group, cosy and welcoming with a little front garden to flop in and soak up that coastal breeze. There’s off-road parking out back, which was a godsend after our detour drama, and we dumped the bags quick as you like. Sleeping 11 of us comfortably, it felt like a proper home-from-home, especially with the North York Moors just a hop away if we fancied a wander.

But let’s be honest, the real star was the food – or should I say, our heroic attempts at it. First night, we raided the local market down by the harbour for fresh Whitby crab and plump kippers. I fancied myself a chef, rolling up my sleeves in the big kitchen to steam those crabs, but ended up with more shell in my teeth than meat. The others took the piss gently, but we cracked open a bottle of white and made do with buttery new potatoes from the veg stall – simple, delicious, and miles better than any supermarket rubbish.

Next morning, we hit The Magpie Café for breakfast – if you’ve not had their scrambled eggs on thick toast with smoked haddock, you’re missing out. It’s proper queue-out-the-door stuff, but worth every minute for that creamy, flaky perfection. Lunch was a wander to the fish market stalls; we grabbed cod fresh off the boats and some whelks for the brave ones. Back at the house, I tried frying up the cod in the deep pan, but let’s just say the smoke alarm got a workout. Laughing through the chaos, we salvaged it with chips from the chippy down the road – golden, vinegar-drenched beauties that hit the spot.

Evenings were pub heaven. The Endgame down on Church Street became our local – we propped up the bar for pints of Black Sheep and plates of scampi that could feed a family. One night, after a failed lasagne attempt (pasta sheets glued solid, don’t ask), we stumbled there for their Whitby scampi and chips, all crispy batter and mushy peas. Sat in that snug corner, bellies full, overlooking the twinkling pier lights, I had a quiet moment thinking how daft I can be in the kitchen but how brilliant it is to muck about with mates like that.

We kept it local too – a quick pop to the market for fudge and local cheeses, then a curry from the Bengal Chef up the road, spicy enough to wake the dead but creamy with naan on the side. By the end of the week, we’d cooked more disasters than triumphs, but every meal felt like a win, washed down with sea views and stories. Whitby’s got that magic for food lovers – fresh, hearty, and unpretentious. Can’t wait to go back and nail that crab next time.