I’ll never forget the drive up to Kelso – what was meant to be a straightforward jaunt from Edinburgh turned into a proper comedy of errors. Sat-nav decided to play silly buggers halfway through, rerouting us down some winding single-track lane that felt like it hadn’t seen daylight since the Jacobites. We ended up in a field, reversing into a hedge while the kids in the back seat chanted “Are we there yet?” like a broken record. Me, trying to look like the unflappable dad, but secretly panicking about scraping the hire car. By the time we spotted the market town’s square, hearts were racing and we were all starving – classic family holiday start, right?

Pulling up outside our apartment in the heart of Kelso, though, all that stress melted away like morning mist off the Tweed. It’s this welcoming two-bedroom spot, dead stylish and cosy, sleeping four of us just right – perfect for our little crew. First impressions? Bloody brilliant. The place had that lived-in charm without the fuss, all clean lines and comfy vibes that made you want to kick off your shoes and flop onto the sofa. We tumbled in, bags everywhere, and I could already picture lazy mornings with coffee overlooking the bustle below.

That anticipation on the approach had me buzzing – Kelso’s got this proper market-town glow, with its Georgian frontages and the river winking in the distance. We’d been dreaming of ditching the daily grind for the Scottish Borders, and it hit us straight away: this was our stylish bolthole to unwind. No grand mansion, just a cracking apartment that felt like home from the off. The kids claimed their room in seconds, while I snuck a peek at the view – the River Tweed right there, practically inviting us to cast a line for salmon or trout. “Right,” I said, “fishing first thing tomorrow.”

Next morning, after a fry-up that sorted out the travel hunger, we wandered down to the riverbank. It’s famous for its fishing, and even my amateur attempts got a few tugs – though I suspect the fish were laughing at me more than biting. Feeling chuffed, we hopped in the car for Floors Castle, just two miles up the road. What a gem – that 18th-century pile with its Victorian walled gardens had us oohing and aahing. We strolled the woodland trails, dodging ducks by the riverside, the air crisp and alive with birdsong. Pure Borders magic.

Fancy a bit of green? Kelso Golf Club’s a mile away, but I stuck to spectating – my swing’s more windmill than pro. Instead, we timed it for Kelso Racecourse, 1.5 miles out. The historic grandstand from 1822 is a proper treat, one of Scotland’s oldest, and we had a cheeky flutter on the nags. Won a tenner! Sat there with fish and chips, watching the horses thunder past, I had one of those gentle moments – you know, reflecting on how these daft mishaps make the best memories. Who needs smooth sailing when you’ve got hedges, hedges, and a cracking wee apartment to come back to? We’re already plotting our return.