I’ll never forget the drive up to Melrose in the Scottish Borders – a proper faff from the start. I’d packed the car the night before, convinced I’d beat the traffic, but no, some daft cow decided to have a wee shunt on the A68 just south of Jedburgh. Sat there for an hour, engine idling, fantasising about a proper holiday brew instead of my cooling thermos. Still, by the time I wound through those rolling hills, past tattie fields and the odd sheep giving me the side-eye, the anticipation was bubbling up. Melrose looked like a postcard from the car window – that abbey silhouette against the Eildon Hills, and the Tweed glittering like it was showing off.

Pulling up to the first-floor apartment was a treat straight away. Roadside parking right nearby, no hiking bags up a hill, and you’re moments from the high street shops, a cosy pub that smelled of chips even from afar, and the river path for a gentle wander if the mood took you. Stepping inside, it was all open-plan loveliness: a comfy sofa begging you to flop, Smart TV for bingeing, and a dining table perfect for lazy suppers. The kitchen had everything – oven, hob, dishwasher, the lot – so no faffing about, just crack on with pasta or toast your own bacon.

But honestly, the joy of the whole trip was doing bugger all. After that drive, I kicked off my shoes and sank into the sofa with a cuppa, staring out at the quiet street. No grand plans, just pure sloth. The next morning, I discovered there’s a sweet little shared garden area out back – nothing fancy, but with a bench under some apple trees, it was ideal for nursing coffee and cracking open a book. I’d brought along a battered copy of a Robert Burns poetry collection, figuring it was apt, and spent hours there, feet up, letting the world slow right down. The Borders air has this crisp edge that makes you breathe deeper, and with birds cheeping and the odd distant tractor chug, it was bliss.

Afternoons blurred into siestas. I’d potter to the kitchen for a sandwich – that washing machine was a godsend for my muddy trainers after a five-minute splash by the river – then back to the sofa for podcasts or dozing. One day, I even treated myself to a pub lunch round the corner, fish and chips that hit the spot, before retreating for more reading. The king-size bed was a dream for stretching out at night, all fluffy duvet and zero creaks, and the single room stayed empty, a reminder I didn’t need company to unwind.

Looking back, it was a gentle nudge from the universe: slow down, you numpty. In a world of rushing about, those lazy days in Melrose – garden lounging, page-turning, total inertia – recharged me more than any hike could. If you’re after proper holiday peace, this is the spot. I’m already plotting a return.