I’ll never forget the drive up to the Scottish Borders last month – a proper faff from the start. I’d set off from Edinburgh full of beans, playlist blaring some indie folk tunes, only to hit a massive downpour just past Galashiels. The sat-nav decided to throw a wobbly, rerouting me down a single-track road that felt like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the Jacobites. Cue a minor panic when I scraped the wing mirror on a rogue hedge, but hey, it added character to the journey. By the time I crested the hill into Selkirk, the rain had cleared, leaving those rolling Borders hills bathed in that golden late-afternoon light. My heart lifted – this was going to be mint.

Nestled right in the heart of the Scottish Borders and close to the market square in The Royal and Ancient Burgh of Selkirk, the apartment made a great place to spend a few days or extended break while exploring this fabulous and intriguing part of Scotland. It was cosy and spotless, with a cracking view over the rooftops from the top-floor windows – first impressions? Spot on. I dumped my bags, brewed a cuppa, and felt that holiday buzz kick in properly.

The real magic, though, wasn’t in any guidebook itinerary. No, it was all about stumbling on hidden gems by pure accident – getting properly lost in the best possible way. First morning, I wandered out aiming for a quick coffee in the square, but took a wrong turn down a cobbled lane behind the high street. Ended up at this tucked-away community garden, all wildflowers and buzzing bees, where a couple of locals were tending allotments. They pressed a fresh scone on me – still warm from the oven – and pointed out a footpath I’d never have found otherwise. It led me up through oak woods to a viewpoint over the Ettrick Water, mist rising off the river like something from a painting. No crowds, just sheep bleating in the distance. I sat there for ages, chuckling at how my rubbish sense of direction had gifted me this secret spot.

Later that day, same story. Trying to loop back via the old kirk, I veered off onto a muddy track (trainers ruined, naturally). Popped out at a ruined peel tower – one of those ancient watchtowers you hear about but never seek out. Clambered up for a panorama of patchwork fields and distant heather moors. Felt like I’d time-slipped into a Walter Scott novel. And don’t get me started on the evening ramble: lost again near the Haining Loch, stumbled on a wee wild swimming hole fringed with ferns. Too nippy for a dip, but the stillness was pure therapy.

Reflecting on it now, over a dram back at the apartment, I reckon that’s the Borders’ trick – it rewards the wanderer. No need for grand plans; just let the lanes lead you. Sure, I got muddier and more disoriented than planned, but those accidental discoveries – the quiet gardens, forgotten towers, hidden waters – made it my favourite kind of holiday. If you fancy ditching the tourist traps for proper Borders magic, Selkirk’s your spot. Can’t wait to go back and lose myself all over again.