I finally made it to Scarborough after a bit of a faff on the drive up from Leeds – nothing major, just me spilling half my coffee down my shirt at a services near York, turning me into a walking advert for Costa. Laughing it off as I dabbed at the stain with a greasy napkin, I carried on, windows down, with the kids belting out some terrible pop tunes from the back seat. By the time we rolled into town, the North Sea breeze was whipping through, carrying that salty tang that screams proper seaside holiday.

Spotting the sign for The Sequoia just off the main drag near the South Cliff, we trundled down the narrow lane, dodging a cheeky seagull eyeing our wing mirrors like they were chips. There she was – this cosy little lodge, all timber-clad charm nestled among a few others in a peaceful holiday park. It’s the sort of place that feels like a hug from an old mate: not flashy, just right for a family unwind. We parked up, unloaded the boot in a flurry of beach bags and wellies, and I fumbled with the key code while my other half wrestled the youngest out of her car seat, mid-tantrum about wanting ice cream already.

Stepping inside was pure bliss. The open-plan living space hit you first – a cracking wood-burning stove (unlit, but promising cosy nights), squishy sofas begging for a collapse, and a kitchen that looked like it could handle my half-arsed spag bol without batting an eyelid. The kids bolted straight for the patio doors, yelling about the hot tub out back. “Can we get in now, Dad?” No chance, mates – it’s October, and I’m not fishing rubber ducks out of icy water on day one. But the private decking was ace, overlooking a little communal green where other families were kicking a ball about. Proper relaxed vibe, with fairy lights strung up for evenings, and that faint whoosh of waves in the distance.

First impressions? Spot on for lodge life chaos in the best way. We dumped the bags and cracked open a round of brews – mine a cold lager from the fridge (fully stocked with milk and basics, bless the cleaners). The bedrooms were a treat: our en-suite king-size was snug as a bug, with fluffy towels piled high, and the kids’ twin room had bunks that sent my lot into hysterics, clambering up like monkeys. I caught myself in the mirror, coffee stain still faintly visible, and had a proper chuckle – here we were, proper family, shedding the daily grind for this wooden haven just a stone’s throw from Scarborough’s front.

Wandering out for a nose around, it was mere minutes to the beach – we nipped down to South Sands, the kids paddling in rock pools while I skimmed stones, feeling that gentle pull of reflection. Life’s mad rush back home? Forgotten already. Back at The Sequoia, we fired up the BBQ on the deck (it’s got one, gas and ready), grilling bangers and scoffing them with buns from the nearby Co-op. A minor lodge mishap ensued when the youngest smeared sauce everywhere, turning her into a human ketchup bottle, but we mopped it up with giggles and wipes. Sat there as the sun dipped, toes wiggling in the cool grass, I thought, this is it – simple pleasures, a bit of joyful disorder, and zero agenda. Scarborough’s magic wrapped in Sequoia simplicity. Can’t wait for day two, but bloody hell, what a cracking start.