I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby – we’d packed the car with enough crisps and sandwiches to see us through a siege, but about 20 miles out, the heavens opened and the satnav decided to have a midlife crisis, sending us on a scenic detour through some sodden moorland that felt like the edge of the world. By the time we rolled into town, I was knackered and starving, dreaming of a hot chippy supper. But as we pulled up to our spot – a splendid apartment in a converted Victorian property, right in the heart of Whitby’s historic port – all that faded. Sixteen steps up from a fancy wrought iron gate (great for building holiday calf muscles), and we stepped into this small but perfectly formed gem over two floors. First impressions? Spot on – cosy, beautifully renovated, and screaming romantic getaway for two.

We dumped the bags and beelined for the bespoke galley-style kitchen. Slate floor cool underfoot, ceramic sink gleaming – it was like a telly chef’s dream squeezed into a nutshell. I fancied myself as a proper cook straight away, so while my other half unpacked, I rustled up some pasta with garlic and chilli from the local market we’d spotted on the way in. The wet room’s underfloor heating was a godsend after the rain, steaming us back to life before we ventured out two steps down to the sunny sitting room. Dining table tucked under the spiral staircase? Perfect for scoffing that first meal with a cheeky glass of red, watching the world go by through the window.

Whitby’s food scene had us hooked from the off. Next morning, we wandered to the harbour and hit the fish market – glistening fresh cod, haddock, and crab straight off the boats. Couldn’t resist splashing out on some Whitby scampi and cockles for lunch, eaten on a bench overlooking the swinging bridge, with gulls eyeing us jealously. Pubs became our religion: The Endean’s of Crathorne for a pint of Black Sheep and pie that melted in your mouth, all sticky gravy and flaky pastry. Evenings blurred into The Golden Lion on the West Cliff – think hearty fish pie washed down with a local ale, while swapping tales with locals about the best kippers in town (spoiler: it’s trenchers, but don’t tell them that).

Back at the apartment, my cooking attempts got ambitious. One night, I tried smoking mackerel in the tiny oven using peat from a market stall – it worked a treat, until the smoke alarm had a hissy fit and we ended up eating it on the sitting room floor, laughing like idiots. Self-reflection moment: I’m no MasterChef, but there’s something dead satisfying about chopping market veg on that sleek kitchen counter, pretending you’re Gordon Ramsay minus the shouting. We grazed on fudge from Botham’s, sticky toffee pud from a pier stall, and even baked soda bread one drizzly afternoon, slathered in smoked salmon.

By the end of the week, we’d ballooned a stone each, but who cares? Whitby’s grub – from market hauls to pub roasts – made it the perfect foodie hideaway. If you’re after a spot to eat your way through Yorkshire’s best, this apartment’s your ticket. Roll on the next trip!