I’ll never forget the drive up to Whitby last month – a proper Yorkshire adventure that started with a daft little mishap. I’d packed the car the night before, chucked in my wellies and a flask of tea, and set off from Scarborough early, aiming to beat the weekend rush. But ten minutes in, I realised I’d left my phone charger at home. No biggie, I thought, there’s bound to be a shop in Whitby. Little did I know, that tiny oversight would kick off three days of the best kind of unplanned wandering, all centred around my cosy bolthole at Sage Sanctuary.

The journey itself was a dream, winding along the A171 with those dramatic cliffs rising on one side and the North Sea glittering on the other. Rain spat on the windscreen now and then, but the moors were alive with heather, and I had the radio blasting some cracking indie tunes. By the time I trundled into Whitby, past the swing bridge and up the hill towards the sanctuary, I was buzzing. Sage Sanctuary sits tucked away in a quiet corner just off the main drag, a stone cottage that feels like it’s been plucked from a storybook. No garish signs or tourist traps here – just a weathered wooden door, ivy climbing the walls, and a garden bursting with lavender and wild roses. I parked up, grabbed my bags, and let myself in with the key under the mat (old-school charm at its finest).

First impressions? Pure magic. The place is compact but cracking – a snug living room with a wood-burning stove (unlit, but I could already picture cosying up later), a kitchen kitted out with everything you’d need for a fry-up, and upstairs, a bedroom with views straight out to the abbey ruins on the headland. It’s one of those spots that whispers ‘relax’ the moment you step inside. No Wi-Fi signal to speak of, which turned out to be a blessing – forced me to switch off and actually look around. I dumped my stuff, brewed a cuppa, and headed out, determined to shake off the drive with a proper explore.

That’s when the real joy kicked in: stumbling on Whitby’s hidden gems by pure accident. I wandered down a narrow snicket behind the cottage – one of those twisty alleyways that locals call ‘ginnels’ – and found myself in a secret garden I never knew existed. Tucked against the hillside, it’s a wild patch of allotments with polytunnels glowing in the sun, old boys tending runner beans, and a bench overlooking a tucked-away cove. No crowds, just the lap of waves and the odd gull squawking. I sat there for an hour, munching a pasty from my bag, feeling like I’d gatecrashed paradise.

Emboldened, I got properly lost next, veering off the beaten path towards the east cliff instead of the touristy west side. Past the 199 Steps (I skipped those for a sneaky back route), I chanced upon Bagdale Beck, a babbling stream hidden in a wooded dell right in town. It’s bonkers how you can be steps from the fish and chips hordes yet find this – ferns dripping with mist, tiny waterfalls, and not a soul in sight. I followed it upstream, wellies squelching in the mud, and emerged at a forgotten picnic spot with benches carved from driftwood. Laughed out loud when I slipped on a wet stone and nearly ended up in the drink – classic me, always the clutz on holiday.

As the afternoon faded, I looped back via another accidental find: a wee quarry path leading to Smuggler’s Cave, or so the faded sign said. It’s not on any map I’ve seen, just a jagged hole in the rockface with echoes of sea spray and tales of contraband from yesteryear. Sat on the edge, legs dangling, I had a moment of gentle reflection. Life back home’s a whirlwind of deadlines and doom-scrolling, but here, getting lost in Whitby’s nooks felt like hitting reset. No itinerary, no Instagram poses – just me, the sanctuary’s pull, and the thrill of the unknown.

Evening drew in, and I retreated to Sage Sanctuary, firing up the stove for a solo shepherd’s pie. First day done, and I was already hooked on this off-the-radar rhythm. Who needs plans when serendipity’s this good?