Sir Walter Scott, a man whose judgement on these matters can usually be trusted, described Kelso as "the most beautiful if not the most romantic village in Scotland". This is pleasantly ironic given the only reasonable way to describe its central square is French. Aside from the large, ugly hotel, there are enchanting tea rooms, under-the-arches tables, and hunched tenements redolent of nothing so much as little Condom or Montreal in Agen, halfway between Toulouse and Bordeaux, rather than halfway between Edinburgh and Newcastle, as this is. Then there are the cobbles.
This vast sea of stones, each one a painful protrusion from the earth but, collectively, a joyful massage to the feet, gives the small town a rustic civility. When we arrive it is lashing with rain, gloomy above (despite the long evenings at this latitude), and precisely the kind of inclement weather to make the always-cheery Celeste, our eight-month-old companion, rise from her slumber and threaten violence upon the ears of her parents, our fellow diners tonight. Fortunately, just off the main square, The Cobbles Inn – which began life as a Victorian coaching inn – offers salvation.
There is a main bar on the right as we enter, offering casked local ales and single-malt whiskies devoured by locals, who clearly took refuge from the rain several hours ago, so crimson are their faces. To the left, a carpeted eating area unfolds, revealing a bevy of elderly Scots whose uproarious laughter stops us from feeling as though we have entered a retirement home. Celeste, the only under-25 around tonight, is an instant hit with both the locals and the attentive waiting staff, which leaves us with an immediately overwhelming feeling of being cared for.
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