I’ll never forget the drive up to Melrose in the Scottish Borders – a proper faff from the start. I’d packed the car with enough crisps and tea bags to last a siege, but halfway through the A68, the satnav decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a single-track lane that looked like it hadn’t seen tarmac since the Jacobites. We ended up nose-to-nose with a sheep farmer in a battered Land Rover, both of us reversing for what felt like miles while his collie barked like it was auditioning for a sheepdog trial. “Ach, you English tourists always get lost here,” he chuckled through the window, with a grin that showed he didn’t mean it. Turned out he was right – we were only a few minutes off, but by the time we pulled up, I was buzzing with that mix of relief and excitement you get arriving somewhere new.

First impressions? Spot on. It’s a cosy apartment, perfect for two, tucked right in the heart of things with that easy open-plan setup – sofa for flopping after a day out, a kitchen kitted out just enough for bacon butties or a lazy pasta, and a king-size bed that felt like a hug. Roadside parking was a godsend too, nabbed it straight away. No fuss, just the kind of laid-back spot that lets you breathe.

But honestly, what made the trip were the characters we met – proper quirky Borders folk who turned a quiet break into a string of cracking yarns. First up was wee Mrs MacGregor at the Melrose bakery on the high street, no more than a stone’s throw from the door. She’s this tiny dynamo with hair like steel wool and an apron that’s seen decades of service. “Lassie, you try my empire biscuits – they’ll stick to your ribs like glue!” she declared, pressing one into my hand with a wink. We got chatting about her glory days competing at the Eildon Hills Show, where she once won best scone but lost to her own cousin in scones the year after. “Family rivalry, ye ken,” she sighed, eyes twinkling. I left with enough cakes to sink a ship, giggling at her tales of baking disasters involving a rogue recipe from her gran.

Then there was Tam the butcher further down the street, a bear of a man with a beard that could hide a family of mice. Popped in for some local lamb, and he launched into how he’d once arm-wrestled a German backpacker who’d wandered into his shop mistaking it for a pub. “Thought he’d win with those sausage fingers, but nay – Borders beef beats continental pork every time!” We stood there for half an hour, him regaling us with stories of the Melrose Sevens rugby tournament, where apparently half the town ends up in fancy dress. “Next year, you come back and join the pie-throwing mob,” he insisted, slapping a free pork pie into my bag.

Even at the Chain Bridge Honey Farm just outside the village – a quick wander away – we bumped into old Jock, the beekeeper with a voice like gravel and a hat covered in propolis stains. He was showing off his hives, droning on (pun intended) about how the heather honey round here is “pure liquid gold, nae like that supermarket muck.” Over a tasting, he confessed to once smuggling a jar onto a flight to Spain, only for it to explode in his luggage. “Customs thought it was dynamite – spent the night in a cell with a hungover fisherman!” Proper laughed till my sides hurt.

Strolling back to the apartment each evening, sharing a cuppa in the open-plan living space, I couldn’t help a bit of self-reflection. In the rush of London life, you forget how a natter with strangers can recharge you more than any spa day. These Borders lot, with their dry wit and endless stories, made me realise holidays aren’t about ticking off sights – it’s the people who make a place sing. If you’re after that, Melrose is magic. Can’t wait to go back.