Resting place of the heart of Robert the Bruce
It is blazing hot in Melrose when I get there. Not Scotland hot. This is foreign hot.
Melrose is a pretty little place, a former market town now heavily gentrified. There is even a Ferrari parked outside a hipster deli. The high street has more estate agents than pubs. This is Scotland, nobody gives up boozing space lightly. Melrose doesn't feel like a borders farming town, it feels colonial. If you hear a Scottish accent, chances are they are serving you in a minimum wage job in a coffee shop.
Okay, I've finished shitting on the rich, southern settlers that are trying to turn Scotland into their next Cornwall. The plus side is that the town is a really nice place. There are cafes and restaurants a-plenty. This would be a great town to bring someone you are trying to bang on a summer weekend.
To be fair, Melrose was always rich. It had a huge monastery and in the middle ages that was as good as having a Whole Foods in your town. The monks coined it in, having the monopoly on fishing in the Tweed and selling borders wool into Europe. And that is why I am here. To continue caning the arse out of my English Heritage membership which now includes Scottish sites. That's another £5.60 saved. They made money out of my ancestors. You want me to feel guilty about doing them out of a fiver?
Melrose Abbey is easy to find, just look for the picturesque bus station they thought would be nice to build next to it in the 1970's. There is nowhere that isn't enhanced by having a transport hub next door.