I’ll never forget the drive up to Hawick in the Scottish Borders – a proper adventure that started with me taking a wrong turn somewhere near Selkirk, thanks to my rubbish sense of direction and a sat-nav that decided to throw a wobbly. Instead of a smooth two-hour jaunt from Edinburgh, we ended up meandering through misty glens for an extra half-hour, but honestly, it built the anticipation brilliantly. By the time we rolled into town, I was buzzing to see this ground-floor apartment we’d booked, right on the edge of it all, less than a ten-minute stroll from the centre with its cracking pubs and cafes.

Pulling up, my first impressions were spot on – cosy and unpretentious, the sort of place that feels like a mate’s spare room but with all the home comforts. We dumped the bags, brewed a cuppa, and eyed the map for hikes straight from the door. Hawick’s a walker’s dream, isn’t it? The Cross Borders Drove Road and the Roman and Reivers Route kick off nearby, promising epic views over rolling hills and the River Teviot snaking below. First morning, the weather was playing nice – crisp blue skies, not a cloud in sight – so we laced up and headed out on the Drove Road. It’s an old drover’s path, wide and gentle at first, winding through sheep-dotted pastures with that fresh Borders air that makes your lungs sing. We spotted a heron by the riverbank, and I even managed a half-decent photo before my phone battery betrayed me. Lunch was a cheeky picnic of cheese rolls from the local shop, scoffing them on a grassy knoll with the Teviot glittering away.

But oh, the British weather – it’s got a wicked sense of humour, hasn’t it? Day two dawned promising, with a bit of sun peeking through, so we tackled a stretch of the Roman and Reivers Route, dodging boggy patches and climbing to a viewpoint where you can see for miles across the borders. Proper invigorating, that – legs burning, cheeks flushed, the whole bit. Then, mid-afternoon, the heavens opened. Not a polite drizzle, mind, but a full-on Borders downpour that turned the path into a slip-and-slide. We legged it back, soaked to the skin, laughing like idiots as thunder rumbled overhead. Sheltering under a tree (genius move, me), I had one of those moments of gentle reflection: why do I always pack the wrong waterproof? Back at the flat, dripping puddles everywhere, we cranked the heating, cracked open a bottle of Borders Distillery gin from just half a mile away, and plotted tomorrow’s shorter loop along the Teviot for some salmon-spotting.

Next day, true to form, it was lashing again, so we adapted – a gentle riverside wander in waterproofs, dodging puddles and chatting about nothing much. The weather forced us to slow down, appreciate the wildflowers peeking through the rain and the way the mist cloaks the hills like a soft blanket. No epic summits, but those soggy jaunts felt more real, more connected to the place. By the end of the week, we’d notched up miles of trails, a few blisters, and a heap of stories. Hawick’s apartment life suited us down to the ground – steps from a warm pub when the rain won, but with the great outdoors literally on the doorstep. If you fancy hikes with a side of unpredictable weather (and who doesn’t?), it’s a belter of a spot. I’m already plotting a return when the forecast’s kinder.