I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby – we’d set off from Leeds full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav chirping away, but about halfway there, disaster struck. A massive lorry decided to play bumper cars on the A171, and we ended up stuck in a snaking queue for what felt like hours. By the time we rolled into town, tempers were frayed and stomachs rumbling. Still, as we finally turned the corner and spotted our holiday pad – this cracking 19th-century Tudor-style terraced house, done up to a tee while keeping all its old-school charm – my heart lifted. Just a stone’s throw from the beach and town centre, with off-road parking for two cars and a sweet little front garden. We tumbled through the front gate into the hallway, kicking off our shoes on that handy monks bench, and I thought, yeah, this is going to be mint.

First impressions? Spot on. It felt like stepping into someone’s cosy home-away-from-home, perfect for our little crew. But let’s be honest, the real star of the show was the food – or rather, our grand plans to conquer Whitby’s grub scene. We’d barely unpacked when hunger hit, so we wandered down to the town centre for fish and chips at the Magpie Café. Proper Yorkshire style: golden batter, fat chips, mushy peas on the side, and a pot of tea that could’ve stripped paint. Sat outside overlooking the harbour, watching the boats bob, it was pure bliss. I hoovered mine down so fast I nearly inhaled a bit of batter – classic me, always rushing the good stuff.

Next morning, we hit the market on the swings bridge. Whitby’s weekend market is a gem – stalls heaving with local cheeses, fresh crab from the fishermen, and jars of that tangy seafood chutney. I splashed out on some Whitby scampi and a wedge of smoked cheese that smelled like heaven. Back at the house, I fancied myself as a proper chef. The kitchen was kitted out brilliantly, so I rolled up my sleeves for a seafood linguine. Chopped garlic, chucked in the crab and scampi, a splash of white wine from the offie – sounded foolproof. But in my enthusiasm, I overseasoned it with black pepper. Tasted like I’d grated half a mill over it! We all choked it down laughing, with my mate quipping it was “gourmet grit.” Gentle reminder to this scatterbrain: measure twice, cook once.

Evenings were pub perfection. The Endevour just down the road does a cracking Sunday roast – tender beef, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, drowned in gravy. We propped up the bar afterwards with pints of Black Dog, swapping tall tales with locals about the best crab spots. Another night, we tried The Board Inn for pies: steak and ale that fell apart on the fork, served with chips and a side of banter from the barman. One evening, I even managed a half-decent pud in the house – crumble with market-bought rhubarb, though it was a tad runny. Self-reflection moment: holidays like this make me realise I’m better at eating than cooking, but isn’t that half the fun?

We wrapped up with a final beachside fish supper from a hut near the West Cliff – cod so fresh it practically flapped. Whitby’s food scene had us hooked; that perfect mix of markets, pubs, and half-arsed kitchen experiments. Can’t wait to go back for more.