I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby – we’d packed the car to the gills with kids’ toys, wellies, and enough snacks to feed a small army, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive caravan tailback just past Scarborough. Half an hour of inching along, with the little ones chanting “are we there yet?” like a broken record, and me trying not to laugh at my wife’s increasingly creative threats. But as we crested the hill and caught that first glimpse of the sea crashing against the cliffs, with the abbey ruins silhouetted against the sky, all the faff melted away. Whitby was calling, and we were buzzing.

Pulling up to our spot in the heart of town, we were chuffed to bits. It’s this cracking ground-floor garden apartment in a proper Georgian gem, all Grade II listed and dripping with that old-school elegance – high ceilings with fancy roses, a plush sitting room that begged for collapsing into, and a bedroom with a massive dressing room that felt like a secret hideaway. The kitchen was bang up to date, gleaming and ready for action, and the bathroom spotless. Best bit? That communal lawned garden out back, a proper suntrap for kicking back with a brew. From the doorstep, you’re straight into the buzz of Whitby – chip shops, ice cream stalls, and the endless promenade stroll.

First morning, we wandered down to the beach, buckets and spades in tow, building the wonkiest sandcastle you’ve ever seen. The tide was out, revealing rock pools teeming with crabs that had the kids in hysterics – one pinched my toe, and I yelped like a daft fool, much to their glee. Lunch was fish and chips from a hut on the pier, wrapped in paper and scoffed with sandy fingers, vinegar dripping everywhere. Pure bliss, that simple stuff.

Afternoons were for mooching – up the 199 Steps to the abbey (we counted every one, puffing and panting), then back down for cream teas at a cosy café overlooking the harbour. Evenings in the cottage were chaos central: me burning the first batch of scones in that swish oven (note to self: ovens here run hot!), the kids turning the sitting room into a den with cushions, and us all piling onto the sofa for a family film night, rain pattering on the windows. One night, the garden was alive with stars, so we dragged out blankets for a impromptu picnic of biscuits and hot chocolate. Magic.

Looking back, it was those little cottage-life hiccups that made it – the sand everywhere, the queue for the best ice cream, the way the place wrapped you in cosiness amid the seaside whirl. Whitby’s got that knack of slowing you down, reminding you what matters: family, fresh air, and not taking yourself too seriously. We left knackered but grinning, already plotting the next trip. If you’re after a relaxed family bolt-hole, this is the ticket.