We’d barely made it past the station when the heavens opened, turning our weekend bags into soggy burdens and my new trainers into something resembling wet sponges. By the time we reached Beachcrest, the little white-washed cottage just a pebble’s throw from Whitby’s sandy stretch, we were laughing more than complaining, though I did manage to slip on the last step and land squarely on my backside in a puddle.

Still chuckling, we pushed open the door to find a cosy lounge that looked straight out onto the sea. The rain eased just enough for us to shrug on waterproofs and set off along the cliff path that hugs the coast towards Sandsend. The trail was slick underfoot, but the views more than made up for damp socks; waves crashed against the dark cliffs below, and every so often a shaft of sunlight broke through, turning the water a surprising shade of turquoise.

Halfway along we stopped at a bench overlooking the bay, sharing slightly squashed sandwiches while seagulls wheeled overhead, clearly hoping for crumbs. The British weather, true to form, decided to shift again, and within minutes the clouds had parted to reveal a proper warm spell. Shedding our jackets, we continued on foot past clusters of wildflowers clinging to the cliff edge, the air suddenly mild enough for rolled-up sleeves and bare arms.

Back at Beachcrest later that afternoon, we left the windows open so the sound of the tide could drift inside while we planned the next day’s walk. The forecast promised another mild spell, and we were already talking about heading the opposite way along the beach towards Saltwick Bay, boots in hand and fingers crossed that the sun would hold. It felt good to be somewhere so close to the water, where even a simple stroll could turn into a small adventure shaped entirely by the sky above.