I’ll never forget the drive up to the Scottish Borders – a proper faff from the start. I’d packed the car with enough cheese, crackers, and a bottle of Borders red for a romantic getaway with my other half, but halfway there, near Galashiels, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a single-track road that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the Jacobites. We ended up reversing into a sheep-proof gate, laughing like idiots as the owner poked his head out, muttering about “you English lot.” Still, by the time we trundled over the final hill, the anticipation was buzzing – that first glimpse of rolling Teviotdale hills had us grinning like kids at Christmas.

Pulling up to this single-storey cottage, set back from the main road right across from Branxholme Castle’s entrance, it was love at first sight. Cosy as a hug, perfect for us two seeking a bit of peace amid the castle estate’s stunning grounds. No grand entrance needed; we just wanted to flop inside, unpack the groceries, and get stuck into some proper Borders nosh.

First morning, I fancied playing masterchef. Hawick’s only three miles away, so we nipped into town for the local market – stalls groaning under tatties, fresh scones, and the most glorious smoked salmon from Teviotdale smokers. Grabbed some venison sausages, a wedge of Lanark Blue cheese, and crusty bread that still smelled of the oven. Back at the cottage, I attempted a fry-up with black pudding and haggis – ambitious, eh? Mine turned out a tad charred (note to self: low and slow next time), but with her dipping oatcakes into local heather honey, we devoured it on the patio overlooking the estate, tea steaming in the crisp air. Proper bliss, that.

Evenings were for pubs, naturally. The nearest in Hawick, a proper locals’ haunt with low ceilings and real ales on tap, served up steak pies that could make you weep – flaky pastry, tender beef from Borders farms, slathered in gravy. We washed it down with a pint of Timothy Taylor’s, chatting with regulars about the River Teviot’s salmon runs. One night, we pushed the boat out with a ploughman’s board: chunks of mature cheddar, pickled onions sharp as a tack, and apple chutney that had us licking our fingers. My attempt at replicating it back home? Disaster – too much vinegar, tasted like chip shop mush. Laughing about it now, it’s a reminder that some magic’s best left to the pros.

We did venture out for a gentle wander along the Teviot trails, but always with picnic in tow – oatcakes, pâté from Hawick’s delis, and flask of soup. One lunch was smoked trout straight from the river, paired with crusty rolls from the bakery. Simple, but it hit the spot after a blustery mile. Selfishly, this trip made me reflect: amid the feast of flavours, I realised I’d been rushing meals back home, scoffing takeaways. Here, every bite slowed us down, savouring the Borders’ bounty.

If you’re after a spot where food’s the star – markets buzzing, pubs hearty, and your own kitchen experiments forgiven – this wee retreat’s your ticket. We left fatter, happier, and already plotting the next trip for more of that pie.