I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby – a proper British road trip gone slightly pear-shaped. We’d set off from Scarborough early, buzzing with that holiday anticipation, windows down, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist. But halfway there, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a narrow lane that turned into a muddy quagmire after last night’s rain. Cue 20 minutes of reversing with heart in mouth, laughing hysterically as the car fishtailed. Still, we arrived in one piece, and oh boy, what a first impression. Perched in a prominent spot in this buzzing seaside town, our four-storey Georgian townhouse was an absolute gem – tasteful inside with quirky touches that gave it bags of character, and that bubbling hot tub out back? Pure bliss after a long drive.

First morning, the weather gods smiled: blue skies, crisp North Sea air. We laced up our boots for a hike up the famous 199 Steps to Whitby Abbey. It’s steeper than it looks – 199 steps wheezing up the cliffside – but the views at the top were worth every calf burn. Ruins silhouetted against the sea, gulls wheeling overhead; I felt like Captain Cook himself plotting his next voyage. We wandered the headland paths after, wind whipping our faces, spotting seals bobbing in the waves below. Proper invigorating stuff.

Come afternoon, classic Whitby – clouds rolled in thick and fast, turning the sky to slate. Our plan for a long coastal ramble to Sandsend went out the window; instead, we embraced the dreich and trudged the West Cliff in a downpour. Umbrellas inside out, trousers soaked to the knees, but there’s something oddly satisfying about a proper British battering. We ducked into a chippy for battered haddock and mushy peas, steaming up the windows while plotting tomorrow’s adventure. That evening, back at the house, we sank into the hot tub, rain pattering on the bubbles, pints in hand. Luxury.

Next day, more weather roulette. Sunshine teased us out for the Cleveland Way trail along the cliffs towards Saltwick Bay – rugged paths hugging the edge, wildflowers nodding in the breeze, the North York Moors stretching inland. We timed it for low tide, scrambling down to the beach for fossils in the shale. But by lunch, mist descended like a Yorkshire pudding rising too quick. Visibility down to nil, we pivoted to the softer Esk Valley paths behind town – gentle riverside strolls past herons and old swing bridges, mud squelching underfoot. It forced us to slow down, chat properly, away from the tourist hustle.

Looking back, that’s the magic of Whitby hikes: the weather keeps you on your toes, turning grand plans into unexpected gems. I caught myself reflecting one soggy evening, nursing a cuppa by the window – we’re so wired for perfection, but these damp, windswept wanders? They’re what recharge the soul. Can’t wait to go back and let the rain decide again.