Border raiders

Jedburgh- featured fairly prominently during my childhood. Every August our car, along with our next door neighbours’, would begin the long drive from Leeds to some remote cottage in the Scottish Highlands.

Neither the car, nor my brother, was made for long-distance travel, so once we’d made it up the notoriously bumpy road to the town, which marks the dividing line between England and Scotland, we all needed a break.

In the car park overlooking the ruins of the abbey, where Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded, my brother would console himself and his stomach with a Marmite sandwich (aside from travel sickness, he was also the fussiest of eaters).

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We never stayed very long. It was too close to our destination to warrant much of a look and too far away to risk ending up in the pitch black when we inevitably got lost trying to find the cottage which was to be our home for two weeks.

Turns out we are not alone.

The Scottish Borders might span 1,800 sq miles, it might boast rolling hills, rocky outcrops and secluded coves, but nine times out of 10 it’s the place people travel past on their way to the more dramatic lochs and mountains in the north.

It wasn’t always this way. Before industrialisation, the Tweed and Teviot valleys were home to the lion’s share of the Scottish population and in the early Middle Ages, the Scottish court was based at Roxburgh. All that remains of the once grand legislative buildings is an overgrown mound and like much else in this part of the world it’s easy to pass by without noticing.

However, turning off the A1 a few miles north of Newcastle and shortly before the skyline of Edinburgh comes into view does bring its own rewards.

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This is a place which time didn’t exactly forget, but where it has paused for a while. Those who live here talk of a rhythm of life which harks back to an earlier age when shopkeepers knew the names of each of their customers and with a wistful look in their eye they remember the days when the countryside was a major part of the economy and not just a playground for townies.

The truth is tourism is key to the area’s prosperity and those who run the B&Bs are hoping they can market the Borders as one of Britain’s best-kept secrets.

As hidden gems go, the area, studded with ancient castles and abbey ruins, has much to shout about. Our base for the weekend was Town Yetholm, a conservation village in the upper Bowmont valley. On the route of the 62.5 mile St Cutbert’s Way, which links Melrose to Holy Island, the place is a Mecca for walkers.

The owner of the village shop, which seemed to stock everything from baked beans to knitted handbags, might not have known our names, but he was grateful when we shed some light on his new chip and pin machine.

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Warmth is something they do well in the Borders and while Yetholm may not have much to offer in the way of night life, the Plough in the village and the nearby Border Hotel are both friendly locals.

To get the best out of the Borders, you really do need the weather on your side and arriving after weeks of seemingly endless rain, we felt blessed when the downpours turned to sunshine.

In the Borders you don’t have to stray far from the beaten track to get away from it all. During the three hours we spent exploring the hills around Yethlom, we only saw two other souls – a rider failing to persuade her horse to cross the raging stream which a few days earlier had been a babbling brook.

The Borders has a long association with horses and the steeplechase course at Kelso bills itself as one of the friendliest in the county. Sadly there were no meetings during our stay, so we had to amuse ourselves with the area’s other big draw – history.

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A short drive from Yetholm is Melrose. The small town on a bend in the River Tweed is dominated by the ruins of its 12th-century abbey. An audio tour guides visitors around the stone cloisters and the grounds where the embalmed heart of Robert the Bruce is said to be buried.

Next door to the abbey there is a museum of archaeological finds which have been excavated over the years. As the clouds returned it provided welcome shelter, but it lacks the kind of hands on exhibits now demanded by modern museum visitors.

As the rains returned it was the excuse we needed to head back to our cottage, light the real fire, draw the curtains and enjoy some cozy comfort. The Borders may have history oozing out of every pore, but it’s also the perfect place to put your feet up and do nothing very much at all.