We’d barely made it out of Leeds when the satnav decided to send us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors were practically kissing the hedgerows. I was convinced we’d end up reversing into a sheep, but somehow we squeezed through and rolled into Whitby just as the tide was turning. The first thing that hit me was the smell of fish and chips drifting up from the harbourside, and I instantly regretted the service-station pasty I’d wolfed down an hour earlier.

Crossbutts Farmhouse sits just a short stroll from the sand, tucked behind a low stone wall with a view straight across the bay. After we’d dragged the bags inside and flicked the kettle on, the kitchen drew us in like moths. It’s one of those proper farmhouse kitchens with a big wooden table and enough cupboards to lose a week’s worth of shopping in. We’d picked up a couple of fat Whitby crab claws and some local sausages at the little market by the swing bridge on the way through town, so supper practically planned itself.

Next morning the sun was out, so we wandered into the old town and straight to the Magpie Café for their legendary haddock and chips. I managed to drop a dollop of tartare sauce down my front before we’d even sat down, which set the tone for the rest of the day. Full and slightly sticky, we drifted along Church Street, ducking into the little deli for fresh bread and a wedge of Yorkshire cheese, then popped into the Board Inn for a quick half of local ale while we decided what to do with the rest of the afternoon.

Back at the farmhouse the afternoon sun was slanting across the garden, so we decided to attempt a “proper” crab risotto using the leftover claws. It started well enough—onions sizzling, rice toasting—but somewhere between adding stock and checking the tide times I managed to scorch the bottom of the pan. The resulting dish was more like smoky crab porridge, but we ate it anyway, sat at the long table with the doors open to the sea air, laughing at our own kitchen disasters.

By evening we were ready for proper pub grub again, so we strolled down to the Dolphin for their steak-and-ale pie. The portions were generous enough to feed a small fishing crew, and we left pleasantly full and slightly slower on the walk back. Sitting on the low wall outside the cottage later, watching the lights come on along the harbour, I realised how quickly a simple plan—eat well, walk a bit, try not to burn dinner—had turned into the nicest sort of rhythm.