I’ll never forget the drive up to Jedburgh – we’d packed the car with enough snacks to feed a small army, but halfway through the Borders, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us on a scenic detour through some winding lanes that felt like they hadn’t seen tarmac since the 1800s. Bumping along, with the dog whining in the back and my other half muttering about signal, I was half-convinced we’d end up in someone’s cow field. But as we finally rolled into town, the anticipation kicked in – that proper holiday buzz of “what’s around the corner?” And blimey, first impressions didn’t disappoint: the high street buzzing with that cosy Borders charm, and our duplex apartment right in the thick of it, welcoming us with open arms (and space for the dogs, thank goodness).

Stepping inside, we were hit with this brilliant open-plan setup on the first floor – kitchen, dining table, and sitting area all flowing together, like it was made for lazy mornings and post-pub feasts. The kitchen was kitted out properly: shiny hob, decent oven, and every gadget you could need. No faffing about with half-measures here. We dumped the bags and cracked straight into supper, rustling up pasta with some local sausagemeat we’d grabbed en route. Nothing fancy, but it tasted like heaven after that drive – proper comfort food, wolfed down at the table while the dogs sprawled out.

Next morning, we wandered down to the high street market – Jedburgh’s got this cracking little one on Fridays, stalls heaving with fresh veg, artisan cheeses, and those fat, juicy Borders sausages that smell like sin. I loaded up on tatties, kale from nearby farms, and a wedge of cheddar that could’ve doubled as a doorstop. Back at the flat, my cooking attempt turned into a right laugh: I fancied a shepherd’s pie, but overestimated the mash quantity and ended up with enough to feed the neighbours. We invited the folks from the flat below (turns out they were locals on a staycation too), and it turned into an impromptu feast. Slathered with gravy made from stock I’d simmered all afternoon, it was messy, hearty, and miles better than anything from a packet.

Evenings were all about the pubs – Jedburgh’s got a gem in The Friarsgate, just a stagger away, where the ale’s crisp and the fish and chips come battered to perfection, with mushy peas on the side that transport you straight to chippy heaven. One night, we tried The Anchor’s steak pie – flaky pastry, tender beef swimming in rich gravy – washed down with a pint of something local and peaty. I’m not one for overdoing it, but those meals hit the spot every time. Sat there, full as a tick, I had a quiet moment reflecting on how daft it is rushing through life back home, always grabbing takeaways. Here, cooking proper meals from market hauls felt like a treat, not a chore – a gentle reminder to slow down and savour.

We even had a crack at haggis one evening, pan-fried with neeps and tatties, using bits from the market. Turned out a bit lumpy (my knife skills need work), but paired with a dram from the offie, it was pure Borders bliss. Every day revolved around what we’d eat next – brekkie fry-ups with bacon from the butcher, lunch of cheese ploughman’s on crusty bread, and those pub crawls tying it all together. Left feeling stuffed, happy, and already plotting the next trip for more of the same. If you’re after a base for scoffing your way through the Borders, this is it.