Still a frisson of excitement as you reach the Scottish border on the A68 (nearest GBG pub – 3 hours walk). The presence of border guards cleverly disguised as burger vendors is the highlight,
though the calling card from the Welsh chapter of the Mansfield Vespa club runs it close.
A caring husband keeps his wife in a plentiful supply of strong beer and cheap chocolate, so we popped into the boutique retail outlet called Born in the Borders just outside of Jedburgh. Apparently the minor track we went down was the A698.
Frankly the countryside was the highlight of a set-up where, surprise, the cakes in the restaurant were doing the best business. There’s a self-guided tour round the tiny brewery, whose beers popped up at regular intervals on our trip.
There was only one beer to take home to Mrs RM, albeit on the weak side for her. She was impressed.
With gin, chocolate tiffin, and bug-spotting, this would have been the place to leave Mrs RM while I explored the rather more basic pub offer in Jedburgh. Shame she was stuck in Waterbeach.
I have no idea why the door to the Canon says Exchange, possibly to confuse Simon when he gets here in 20 years time.
Even with Theakston on the bar, and an English mid-table clash (Arsenal v Man U) on the TV, this was clearly a Scottish bar for professional drinkers.
Our halves were the only cask to interrupt a flow of Tennents, rose wine and a pint of Magners drunk with a straw by one of several old chaps in sweaters.
With Charles to interpret, I can bring you the one discernible snippet of conversation;
“I had dinner with the Taliban last night”
Even I have more respect for the in-laws than that.
I liked the place, it was a comfortable drinking house, but perhaps Mrs RM would have put it in the box marked “mens pubs“.
Jedburgh is worth a look, especially for fans of graveyards and ruins.
But Musselburgh was calling.