I’ll never forget the drive up to Kelso – a proper faff from the start. We’d set off from Edinburgh full of beans, sandwiches packed and the sat-nav chirping away, but halfway through the Borders, it decided to throw a wobbly and sent us down a single-track lane that looked more like a sheep’s personal runway. Twenty minutes of reversing round hairpin bends later, with my other half muttering about “one more go at this bloody thing”, we finally emerged, laughing like idiots, right into the heart of the town. By then, the anticipation was buzzing – Kelso’s got that welcoming glow about it, all honey-coloured buildings and the Tweed sparkling nearby.

Pulling up to our duplex apartment on the second and third floors, smack in the Georgian square, I was chuffed to bits. First impressions? Spot on. Those bowed bay windows flooded the open-plan living space with light, and we dumped the bags before brewing a coffee and flopping into the tasteful sofas, plotting the day. It felt like a proper charming retreat, kitchen kitted out for whatever we fancied rustling up, dining spot perfect for a lazy breakfast. No fuss, just right for pottering about the Borders.

But honestly, it was the locals who made the whole trip sing – a right quirky bunch, full of stories and cheek. First up was wee Tam, the chap at the butchers on the square, no more than five minutes’ walk away. Bald as a coot with a beard down to his waist, he was slicing haggis like it owed him money when I popped in for some steak. “Away wi’ ye, lass,” he grinned, “this is Kelso’s finest – reared by ma cousin’s cows, they were, the lazy sods that barely moved from the field.” We got chatting about the rugby club – turns out he’s a die-hard Borders fan, regaling me with tales of matches where the ref “couldnae tell a try from a tartan blanket”. I left with enough meat for days and a belly laugh that set the tone.

Then there was Morag at the pub round the corner, The Cumberland Arms, where we ended up that first evening. She’s the landlady, built like a tank with a laugh that rattles the windows. “What’ll it be, hen? A pint o’ local ale?” she boomed, pulling us stools at the bar. Before long, she’s on about her cat, Mr Whiskers, who “rules the Borders single-handedly” and once scared off a fox bigger than a labrador. The regulars chipped in – old Jock with his flat cap, claiming he’d fished the Tweed since before the war, and young Finn, the barman, who swore the river’s salmon “whisper secrets if ye listen right”. We nursed our drinks, swapping yarns about city life versus Borders bliss, and by closing time, it felt like we’d known them forever.

Next day, strolling by the abbey ruins – just a hop away – we bumped into eccentric Professor type, Ian, sketching the arches with a fag dangling from his lip. “Dinnae mind me,” he said, “I’m just here courting the ghosts.” Turned out he’s a retired history bod, full of crackers about Kelso’s smuggling past, how the townsfolk outfoxed the excisemen with barrels hidden in the kirk. We sat on a bench, him sketching us into his book, me reflecting on how daft it is rushing through life back home when chats like this are what recharge the batteries.

Those encounters – Tam’s banter, Morag’s warmth, Ian’s whimsy – turned a simple holiday into something magic. Left me pondering: why don’t I make more time for proper natter? If you’re after a Borders escape, this is the spot – quirky souls and all.