I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby – a proper Yorkshire jaunt that started with high hopes and ended with me swearing at the sat-nav (under my breath, mind). We’d piled into the car from Leeds early doors, kids buzzing in the back with crisps and iPads, me dreaming of sea air and fish suppers. But halfway there, just past Scarborough, the heavens opened and the windscreen wipers were working overtime. Then, disaster: a rogue sheep decided to play chicken on the A171, forcing an emergency brake that sent our picnic sandwiches flying. Laugh? We nearly cried. Still, by the time we crested the hill into Whitby, the clouds were parting like they’d heard about our arrival, and there it was – this cracking three-storey villa perched just below the Abbey on the Donkey Track, double-fronted and brimming with old-school charm. Panoramic views over the bay, beach, and that quirky jumble of a town? Spot on from the off. We tumbled out, bags everywhere, grinning like idiots. This was going to be mint.

First morning, the weather was playing nice – crisp blue skies, perfect for a hike up those famous 199 Steps. You know the ones, right next to the property? We puffed our way up, calves burning, stopping halfway for selfies with the Abbey looming like a gothic film set. At the top, lungs bursting but rewarded with views that stretched forever – swing bridges glinting in the harbour, the sea all sparkly. The kids raced ahead, turning it into a game of who could count the most steps without cheating. Down again, legs like jelly, straight onto the beach for pebble skimming and a brew from a beach hut. Proper idyllic.

But oh, British weather – fickle as a cat on a hot tin roof. Come afternoon, it turned. Grey skies rolled in off the North Sea, wind whipping up like it had a personal grudge. Our plan for a long cliff-top ramble along the Cleveland Way? Scrubbed. Instead, we hunkered down for an impromptu indoor adventure: wood burner crackling away (bliss after that chill), board games with hot chocolate, and peering out at the bay turning wild and woolly. It was one of those moments where you catch yourself thinking, ‘Hang on, this is better than battling horizontal rain on the headland.’ Gentle nudge to the soul, innit? Reminded me holidays aren’t about ticking boxes; they’re about rolling with whatever the sky chucks at you.

Next day, redemption. Sun peeked out, so we laced up for the West Cliff stroll – that gentle path hugging the edge, past tatty amusement arcades and ice cream stalls, out towards the headland. Muddy patches from overnight rain made it a comedy slip-fest (me on my bum once, kids in hysterics), but the views over Tate Hill Beach and the swinging lifeboat station? Magic. We pushed on to the pier, waves crashing dramatic-like, then looped back via the town centre for chips wrapped in yesterday’s news. Rain threatened again by tea-time, mind, so we cut it short and retreated to the covered hot tub – bubbling away under the eaves, steam rising as dusk fell over the twinkling lights. Feet up, beers in hand (or squash for the little ones), watching boats bob in the harbour. Pure contentment.

A few more days of this dance with the elements – misty mornings on the East Cliff paths, one epic downpour that had us sheltering in a bus stop giggling like loons, and a grand finale hike up the Donkey Track at golden hour, abbey silhouetted against a fiery sky. Whitby’s walks are brilliant like that: short and sweet or proper lung-busters, all within a stone’s throw, and the weather just adds the spice. Left us knackered, windswept, and already plotting a return. If you fancy a spot where hikes meet hygge, this neck of the woods delivers.