I’ll never forget the drive up to Kelso in the Scottish Borders – a proper faff from the start. We’d packed the car with enough tinned soup and teabags to last a siege, but halfway there, the sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us looping round some back lane near Jedburgh. Cue me swearing at the dashboard (under my breath, mind) while my other half chuckled and cracked open a packet of hobnobs. Still, by the time we rolled into town, the anticipation was buzzing – Kelso’s got that cosy riverside charm, and I could already smell chips frying somewhere.

Pulling up to our first-floor apartment felt like stumbling on a hidden gem. It’s right in the thick of things, overlooking the Tweed, with that perfect mix of stylish and lived-in. Stepping inside, the sitting room welcomed us with a massive plush sofa begging for a collapse, and a telly ready for some footie. But let’s be honest, the real stars were the kitchen – gleaming with every gadget you could wish for, from a cracking oven to a fridge that could swallow a week’s shopping – and the dining spot, ideal for lingering over a brew.

First order of business? A rummage in the local shops down the road. Kelso’s market square is a treat, buzzing with stalls piled high with fresh tatties, local cheeses, and those fat, juicy Borders sausages that smell like heaven. I grabbed a haul of smoked salmon, crusty bread, and a punnet of raspberries that were so ripe they burst in the bag. Back at the flat, my cooking attempt kicked off – a hearty Cullen skink, or so I hoped. Chopping leeks while humming some dire tune, I nearly scalded the milk, but it turned out lush, all creamy and smoky. We scoffed it at the dining table with a cheeky bottle of Borders red, toasting our survival of the sat-nav debacle.

Evenings were pub heaven. Floors up the street, The Cumberland Arms does a mean pie – flaky pastry, steak that melts, and mash like clouds. We propped up the bar, chatting with locals about the rugby, and I had their special haddock supper that had me grinning like a fool. Next night, we wandered to The Southesk, where the fish and chips were legendary – batter crisp as a fresh £20 note, peas mushy just right. Pub grub here isn’t fancy, it’s proper fuel for the soul, washed down with a pint of something hoppy from a nearby microbrewery.

One morning, feeling ambitious, I tackled pancakes with those market berries and some thick cream from the deli. Flipped one onto the ceiling in a comedy flop – gentle reminder that I’m no MasterChef, more like a tea towel hero. Laughed it off over coffee, reflecting on how these daft moments make a holiday. Lunched at a café by the square on tattie scones and haggis bonbons, then back for a slow-cooked stew using lamb from the butcher’s – tender, rich, with carrots that popped.

Honestly, it was all about the eats. No grand hikes or tourist traps, just feasting on Kelso’s bounty, from market fresh to pub perfection. Left with a belly full of memories and a vow to return for more. What a cracking getaway.