I’ll never forget the drive up to Melrose in the Scottish Borders last autumn – that golden time of year when the hills are ablaze with fiery reds and oranges, and the air has that crisp bite that makes you feel alive. I’d set off from Edinburgh early, fancying a leisurely scoot along the A68, but wouldn’t you know it, about halfway there I took a wrong turn onto some winding back road, ending up chasing my tail through a flock of sheep that scattered like confetti. A classic daft moment for me – I sat there laughing at myself in the rearview, phone map useless with no signal, until a kindly farmer waved me back on track. By the time I arrived, heart racing a bit from the detour, I was buzzing with anticipation for a proper getaway.

Pulling up to this cosy stone cottage right in the heart of Melrose, my first impressions were spot on – it had that welcoming, lived-in charm with a wee garden already dusted in fallen leaves, and the 12th-century Abbey looming just down the road like a sentinel from another era. Autumn wrapped everything in this magical hush; the Eildon Hills across the way were a patchwork of bronze and amber, begging to be explored.

First morning, I laced up my boots for a stomp up those Eildon slopes – the season turned it into a proper feast for the eyes, with bracken crunching underfoot and the odd gust whipping leaves into mini whirlwinds. I puffed my way to the top, rewarded by views over the Tweed Valley that had me grinning like an eejit. Lunch was a hearty bowl of Cullen skink at one of Melrose’s friendly inns, warming me through as the afternoon chill set in. The Borders Book Festival was winding down nearby, and I popped into a couple of pop-up stalls, snagging a dog-eared Sir Walter Scott novel that felt perfect for the mood – autumn’s the season for curling up with tales of old Scotland, isn’t it?

Evenings were pure bliss in the cottage. I’d wander the beautiful grounds of Abbotsford, Scott’s former home just a short stroll away, where the trees were shedding their coats in spectacular fashion, carpeting the paths in gold. One night, with a chill wind rattling the windows, I tried my hand at a Tweed-side amble, watching salmon leap in the river under a low sun – no bites on my line, mind, but the fiery reflections on the water made up for it. Galashiels was close enough for a quick dash to the cinema when the weather turned drizzly, which it did a fair bit; nothing beats a matinee with a hot chocolate as the rain patters down.

Looking back, that autumn stay was a gentle nudge to slow down. Amid the kaleidoscope of colours and that earthy scent of decay and renewal, I found myself reflecting on how we rush through life, missing these quiet wonders. Melrose in fall isn’t just pretty – it’s restorative, pulling you into its rhythm. If you’re after a holiday that feeds the soul without the summer crowds, this is your spot. I’m already plotting a return.