I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby – rain lashing the windscreen like it had a personal grudge, and then, just past Scarborough, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that dead-ended at a sheep field. Typical me, hadn’t checked the signal properly. We doubled back laughing, me swearing I’d stick to paper maps next time, and finally rolled into town as the clouds parted, hearts lifting at the sight of those iconic cliffs hugging the sea. The anticipation had been building all week – visions of fish and chips and Gothic vibes – but pulling up to our cosy holiday lodge, tucked away in a quiet corner, it exceeded expectations. Quaint and welcoming, with a little garden perfect for morning brews, it felt like our own secret bolthole.

First morning, cuppa in hand, we set off for a wander, no real plan, just letting our feet lead. Whitby’s got that pull, doesn’t it? You think you know it from the tourist spots, but we stumbled on hidden gems purely by accident. Turned left instead of right out of the lodge and found ourselves on a winding path snaking behind the abbey ruins – not the main drag up the 199 steps, but a sneaky back way through brambly hedges that opened onto a wild clifftop meadow. Nobody there but gulls wheeling overhead and the sea crashing below. We sat on a tussocky bit of grass, munching crab sandwiches from a tiny harbourside shack we’d passed earlier (best ever, honestly, sweet and fresh as you like). Felt like we’d gatecrashed paradise.

Afternoon took us properly off-piste. Aiming for the beach, we got lost in the warren of streets above the West Cliff – those higgledy-piggledy lanes that twist like a drunk spider’s web. Ended up at a pebbly cove I’d never heard of, tucked under the headland, where the waves pooled in rock crevices teeming with anemones. Kids from nearby cottages were paddling, showing us how to skim stones just right. We spent hours there, getting soaked and giggling, unearthing bits of sea glass that glowed like treasures. No crowds, no chip wrappers – just the raw edge of the North Sea.

Evening brought another fluke find: following a whiff of woodsmoke down an alley off Church Street, we discovered a minuscule café doing proper Whitby goth buns with a twist – spiced with local heather honey. Sat outside as dusk fell, chatting with the owner about her nan’s recipe. Pure magic.

Looking back, that’s the joy of these stays, isn’t it? You arrive buzzing, but it’s the getting lost that etches it in. Me, I’m usually a planner to a fault – spreadsheets for holidays, for goodness’ sake – but Whitby taught me to loosen up, let serendipity steer. We left with muddy boots, full bellies, and stories that’ll outlast any Instagram snap. Can’t wait to go back and lose ourselves all over again.