We have just had the most delightful little long weekend break in the gorgeous town of Berwick Upon Tweed. Ange and I made the last minute decision on Friday morning to head North for something we booked six weeks ago. And I’m damned glad we did.

Of course, me having a lop-sided face, a pronounced slur and an eye patch meant that Ange had to take over all driving duties. It irked me immensely that my Lovely would do all the work behind the steering wheel whilst I just sat like a big girl’s blouse and navigated but she really did most superbly and we arrived in the centre of Berwick just before two in the afternoon.

A lengthy post-journey snooze followed by food and wine was then the order of the day and we sat in our comfortable, en-suite Anchor-Hanover room which we paid the princely sum of £20 a night for (yes you read that correctly) and made plans for the next few days.

Saturday saw us up early to move the car to a 24 hour site. Berwick really does have the most marvellous parking scheme and moving the vehicle occasionally is a small price to pay for parking for £1 for the whole weekend. Who says you can’t do cheap and cheerful any more? Not us!

We then spent several charming hours meandering around the pretty town, myself aided with my stoutest walking stick. I bought a new hat to go with the nine I already have and a lot of cake was consumed during the day. Seriously, a lot of cake! And coffee and tea and Blytonesque levels of ginger beer as it happens.

Berwick is a very smart little town. Bright and clean, and you get a genuine sense of civic pride from the oh so friendly locals. And, I was able to buy some haggis to bring home, something I’d been unable to do last month in St Andrews. Being a huge fan of Scotland’s national dish, you’ll appreciate what this meant to me. Still, the jovial gentleman market trader who sold it to me was from across the border so that gave it a ring of authenticity.

We decided to dine out in the evening and paid a visit to the Leaping Salmon pub. Basically one of those poor-mans Wetherspoons kind of places where all the food is either battered or breadcrumbed before being fried, or turned golden brown by some other means. Still, it retained the cheap and cheerful theme of the weekend. The staff in the Salmon were lovely, however, and I mean this most sincerely, that was the most awful steak I have ever eaten. I asked for a medium rump and was presented with the distressed sole from an old Air Wair boot. But, that was the only downside to the whole show.

After another swift one in the Brown Bear (Guinness) we went back to the room feeling all tingly inside. No, it wasn’t the steak doing it’s worst to my innards but rather the thought of visiting the Holy Island of Lindisfarne on the morrow.

And that’s exactly what we did.

Lindisfarne has been on both our to do lists since before grass was invented and we set off good and early to that we could beat the tide and clear the causeway. We read some horror stories about people taking silly gambles with the North Sea and we didn’t want to add to the statistics.

Holy Island was all and more that we could have wished for. There’s a serene air of calm and peace about the whole place (except for one shop that insisted on playing 90s dance bollocks; we didn’t stay) and Ange was snapping photos faster than a freshly caffeinated paparazzo. And, despite the gentle mist that snuggled around the coast we could still see all the sights that this wonderful island has to show.

We bought souvenirs and gifts for family and a bottle of spiced mead for ourselves. I like mead, I like spice, ergo…

After three hours, and yet more cake, we bid a fond farewell to Lindisfarne and headed back over the causeway in good time to get back to Berwick were we had ice cream on the sea front at the unfortunately named Spittal Beach. By now our weekend calorie count was reaching dizzying and dangerous heights and so we bought some fruit from Asda to temper things a little. And the guy on the till was a real card and no mistake. We had a good chortle with him. You know, jests about wanting to see our ID to buy alcohol. That sort of thing.

We sat up fairly late listening to music, Rush and Kate Bush if my memory serves, and having another wee drink. There was no hurry to leave in the morning so it didn’t matter what time we turned in, which in the end was about half past eleven. And I slept like a hibernating log.

Morning came and with it glorious autumnal northern sunshine. We loafed around for a couple of hours; like I say, there was no rush being Anchor residents. Membership truly does have it’s benefits.

We finally set off for our lovely North Yorkshire home just before midday and the furnace like blaze of turning trees lit the way along the A7 Border Route back to the motorway like a golden corridor. Again, my sweet Ange doing the driving and I cursed Bell’s Palsy for it. But oh, my wife is a wonderful lady.

Got back to Settle by half four, following an M6 pit stop (Greggs and Costa) and left the unpacking until the next day. I feel fat and sluggish having gorged on choice, delicious food (and that steak) all weekend, but I also feel a fatness of another kind. A fatness of contentment at a truly special time spent in a truly special place with my truly special lady.

It was simple and basic, no bells and whistles, and it sure didn’t cost the earth. But it’s a trip we’ll never forget and one we intend to make again very soon.