I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby – we’d packed the car to the gills with enough snacks and board games to survive a siege, only for the sat-nav to chuck a wobbly just as we hit the moors. It rerouted us down some narrow lane that felt like it hadn’t seen daylight since the 1800s, and there I was, white-knuckling the wheel while my other half helpfully suggested we’d end up in a ditch. A classic us moment, really – holidays always start with a bit of chaos to keep things lively.

But oh, the anticipation built as we crested that final hill and spotted the sea glinting in the distance. Whitby’s got that magical pull, doesn’t it? We rolled into town buzzing with excitement, and pulling up to our seven-bedroom holiday home – this splendid, sprawling place spread over four floors right in the heart of the seaside action – it was love at first sight. Stone’s throw from the beach and all the local shops, with the North York Moors just a gentle stroll away if you fancied a wander. First impressions? Spot on. It screamed perfect family (or in our case, couple-with-mates) retreat, cosy yet grand enough to feel like a proper treat.

We dumped the bags and headed straight to the ground-floor kitchen – fully kitted out with every gadget under the sun. I played chef that first night, rustling up a massive pasta bake while everyone else cracked open a bottle of wine and debated who’d win in a zombie apocalypse (me, obviously). The chaos kicked off early: someone spilled sauce on the rug, and we spent half an hour faffing about with damp cloths, laughing till our sides hurt. That’s the joy of these big old houses – room for mess, mishaps, and making memories without anyone batting an eyelid.

Next morning, we ambled down to the beach, buckets in hand like proper kids. Whitby’s sands are brilliant for a lazy paddle, and we built the wonkiest sandcastle you’ve ever seen – complete with a moat that promptly filled with seawater and nearly drowned our crisp packet flag. Lunch was fish and chips from a chippy round the corner, eaten on the swing seat out back, salt in the air and seagulls eyeing us up like we were the main course. Afternoon? A gentle hike up the 199 Steps to the abbey ruins – puffing and panting, but the views over the harbour and cliffs made it all worthwhile. We even spotted a seal bobbing about, which had us cooing like grannies.

Evenings were pure bliss: board games in the lounge till late, with cups of tea and the sound of waves crashing nearby. One night, we tried a pub quiz down the road – came last, but who cares? It was all about the giggles and that warm glow of shared nonsense. Looking back, I realise I’d been run ragged by work before we came, but this place worked its magic. No grand plans, just simple stuff – beachcombing for pretty pebbles, mooching through the markets for fudge, and collapsing into those comfy beds knackered but happy. Whitby’s got that knack for reminding you life’s too short not to embrace the lovely, lopsided bits. We’re already plotting a return – next time, I’m bringing a better sat-nav.