I have lived in Scotland my entire life, and it took me until last autumn to properly explore the Borders. That feels almost shameful to admit. Everyone talks about the Highlands, about Skye, about the islands. The Borders? Nobody talks about the Borders. That, I have come to realise, is precisely what makes them so extraordinary.
My trip began in Melrose, a small town tucked beneath the Eildon Hills that feels like it belongs in a painting. I arrived on a Thursday afternoon and parked beside the abbey. Melrose Abbey is one of those ruins that stops you in your tracks. The red sandstone catches the light in a way that photographs never quite capture, and the detail in the stonework is remarkable for something that has endured centuries of Scottish weather. Robert the Bruce’s heart is said to be buried here, and standing in the nave, surrounded by nothing but birdsong and the distant sound of someone’s dog, I could feel why they chose this spot.
I stayed at Burt’s Hotel on the high street, a solid old coaching inn with good beer and a dining room that takes its food seriously. The lamb shank that evening was as good as anything I have eaten in Edinburgh, and the barman knew every walking route within twenty miles. That sort of local knowledge is worth more than any guidebook.
The next morning I drove south towards Jedburgh, and this is where the Borders revealed their true character. The road winds through rolling farmland that stretches out in every direction, stitched together by dry stone walls and punctuated by the occasional cluster of sheep. There are no tour buses. No visitor centres selling tartan tat. Just open country, quiet roads, and a sky that seems impossibly wide.
Jedburgh Abbey is grander than Melrose, with walls that still reach skyward in defiance of the centuries. I spent an hour there, wandering through the nave and climbing the spiral staircase to the upper levels where you can look out across the town’s rooftops. The visitor centre tells the story of the abbey’s founding in the twelfth century by Augustinian canons, and it is a reminder that this part of Scotland was once the beating heart of the country’s religious and political life.
From Jedburgh I headed to Kelso, which might be the prettiest market town in Scotland. The town square has a cobbled grandeur to it, flanked by Georgian buildings and independent shops that have somehow survived the age of retail parks. I had coffee at The Cobbles, a cafe on the square, and watched the morning unfold at the unhurried pace that defines life down here. Kelso Abbey sits at the edge of town, less complete than Melrose or Jedburgh but no less atmospheric. Floors Castle, the Duke of Roxburghe’s seat, is just a short walk away along the river, and its grounds are worth the visit alone.
The final stop on my circuit was Dryburgh Abbey, hidden in a loop of the River Tweed and surrounded by ancient trees. This is the most peaceful of the four great Border abbeys, and it is where Sir Walter Scott is buried. I found his grave in the north transept, marked by a simple stone, and sat on a bench in the cloister for a long while, listening to the river and thinking about how a man who shaped the world’s image of Scotland chose to rest in this quiet, forgotten corner of it.
What struck me most about the Borders was the absence. The absence of crowds, of noise, of the performance that tourism so often becomes. People in the Borders are not trying to sell you Scotland. They are simply living in it. The woman at the petrol station in Kelso who gave me directions. The farmer on the road outside Dryburgh who reversed his tractor to let me pass and raised a hand as I went by. The couple walking their collies along the Tweed at dusk.
I think the reason nobody talks about the Borders is that the people who love them prefer it that way. There is a quietness here that feels increasingly rare, a sense of place that has not been curated or branded or turned into a hashtag. The hills roll on. The abbeys stand. The rivers run. And Scotland’s best kept secret stays kept, at least for now.
If you go, give yourself three days. Stay in Melrose, drive the circuit, walk the abbey trails, eat well, and let the pace of the place work on you. You will wonder, as I did, why it took you so long.
