I finally made it to Scarborough after a bit of a faff on the train from York – nothing major, just spilled my cuppa all over me lap right as we pulled into the station. Sod's law, innit? But hey, a quick splash under the tap at the loo sorted it, and before long I was lugging my bag down the cobbled streets towards Drake 11, this cracking little fisherman's cottage tucked away in the heart of the old town. It's one of those proper Scarborough gems, all stone walls and cosy nooks, right by the harbour where the sea air hits you like a salty slap. First impressions? Bloody brilliant. The place feels like a hug from your nan – compact, characterful, with a kitchen that's begging for some culinary chaos.

I'd booked it for a three-day jaunt to unwind, and from the off, my mind was on scoff. Scarborough's food scene is legendary, especially if you're into fresh seafood and no-nonsense pub grub. No sooner had I dumped my bags than I was out the door, drawn by the waft of chips and vinegar from the harbour stalls. Drake 11's spot is perfect – five minutes' wander and you're at the fish market, where the boats unload the morning's catch. I grabbed a paper-wrapped cod supper from one of the huts, still steaming, with mushy peas that were proper vivid green. Sat on a bench overlooking the bay, watching the gulls dive-bomb for scraps, it was pure bliss. That first bite, flaky and golden, proper melted away the train stress. Humour in the mishap: a seagull nicked a chip right off my knee, the cheeky sod. I laughed so hard I nearly choked on the next one.

Back at the cottage that evening, I fancied playing masterchef in the dinky kitchen. The Snaptrip listing promised a "well-equipped" setup, and it delivered – hob, oven, even a quirky old Rayburn vibe. I'd picked up some local crab from the market earlier, all sweet and fresh, plus a loaf from the bakery round the corner on Hunters Court. My attempt at crab pasta? Let's just say it was more enthusiasm than expertise. Boiled the linguine a tad too long, sauce came out a bit gloopy from too much cream, but slathered with lemon and black pepper, it hit the spot. Paired it with a pint of Black Sheep from the fridge (I'd stocked up at the offy nearby), feet up on the cottage sofa, peering out at the twinkling harbour lights. Proper content, that was.

Next morning – still smack in those first 24 hours of impressions – I hit the Italian Market on Westborough, just a hop from Drake 11. Scarborough's markets are a rite of passage, and this one's a feast for the senses: stalls piled high with olives, cheeses, and fresh pasta. Snagged some chorizo, rocket, and a wedge of Yorkshire Blue for brekkie sarnies. Cooked 'em up in the cottage, the aromas filling the place like a hug from the Med. Wandered to The Golden Ball pub after, a Scarborough institution five minutes away down Falsgrave Road. It's got that lived-in charm – sticky tables, locals nursing halves – and their fish pie? Flaking cod in a creamy mash topping, with a side of proper chips. I demolished it with a pint of bitter, chatting to the barman about the best catches of the week. Light humour there: I joked my cooking attempt last night could've passed for their special, and he roared with laughter, saying "Lad, stick to the pub next time!"

By day two's lunch, I'd looped back to the harbour chippy for battered haddock – can't get enough – then tried my hand at a cottage curry with market veg and some prawns. Burnt the onions a smidge, but the spice mix from the Italian stall saved it. Pub-hopping ensued at The Cellars on North Street, where the ale selection's spot-on and the ploughman's is a doorstop of cheddar and pickle. Food's the heartbeat here; Drake 11's kitchen makes it dead easy to mix market hauls with pub crawls.

Reflecting on it now, chinwagging over these meals wasn't just filling me belly – it was grounding me, reminding a busy sod like me that simple pleasures like a wonky pasta or a stolen chip beat fancy holidays hands down. First impressions of Drake 11? It's the perfect base for Scarborough's grubby soul. Can't wait to go back.