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, hearts racing a bit, but by the time we crested the hill and spotted the twinkling lights of Whitby below, all was forgiven. That anticipation bubbled up – the sea air, the promise of fish and chips, and our cosy little holiday cottage waiting, all quaint and tucked away in the heart of town.

First impressions? Spot on. It was one of those proper old chapels turned into a holiday let – high ceilings, a bit ecclesiastical but dead welcoming with its snug lounge and that massive kitchen window framing the abbey ruins up on the cliff. We dumped the bags and headed straight out, stomachs rumbling.

That’s when the real magic kicked in – the locals. Whitby’s full of characters who make you feel like you’ve stumbled into a sitcom. First up was Derek at the chippy on the harbourside. Queue was mental, but he’s barking orders like a salty sea captain: “Cod or haddock, love? Go haddock, it’s fresher than me ex-wife’s memory!” We chatted about his glory days crewing fishing boats out of the pier, dodging German U-boats in the war. Proper storyteller, Derek, with a laugh that echoed off the cobblestones. Grabbed our paper-wrapped supper and wandered the swing bridge, munching as the tide rolled in.

Next day, strolling the beach towards the abbey steps, we bumped into Madge, walking her ancient Jack Russell, Percy. She’s a Whitby lifer, born in a house on Grape Lane. “You climbing the 199 steps, dears?” she asked, eyeing our flip-flops. We confessed we were wimps. “Ach, Percy here does ’em twice daily – keeps the legs going!” Turned out she’d been a landlady at the Endeavour pub back in the day, pouring pints for Captain Cook re-enactors. We ended up nattering for an hour about her smuggling tales from the 70s – “Not drugs, mind, just a bit of French brandy up the creek!” Percy dozed at her feet, oblivious.

Afternoon tea at a wee café on Church Street brought Barry, the owner, who overheard my northern accent and launched into a monologue about his failed bid to win Britain’s Got Talent with his sea shanty band. “We called ourselves The Whitby Shanties – harmony like the waves crashing on Tate Hill Pier!” He demo’d a verse, off-key but infectious, drawing grins from the other tables. Proper cheered us up after I’d slipped on the wet pavement outside – nothing broken, just my dignity.

Evening found us at a pub quiz in the centre, where we teamed up with quirky twins, Ethel and Fred, who live round the corner from our place. Ethel’s the font of all Whitby knowledge: “Did you know St. Hilda turned snakes to amber? That’s why our jet’s famous!” Fred, her quieter half, chipped in with deadpan one-liners about the seagulls being “flying binmen”. We didn’t win, but their banter had us in stitches.

Looking back, it wasn’t the views or the walks that stuck – though they were cracking – it was these folk. Made me reflect on how we rush about down south, missing out on proper chats. Whitby’s characters pulled us in, made the holiday ours. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with Derek’s latest yarn.