We arrived at the River Inn, Kelso after two gruelling days on the road. I was freezing cold and bumped and bruised and bashed to bits, I cannot lie. I had managed not to be travel-sick, but only just. Mibbie if I had been out on boats more, like the fisherboys, I might’ve had a better stomach for travelling.

The first night we had stopped a few hours in the tiny village of Lauder, but that had been brief, and now we rode towards Kelso, slow and quiet as the sun rose. The sky was the colour of violets. Ice glowed over the countryside. Our breath hung in clouds. Oh, I was traversing the roads on my very own map. I was making my way down the route I had dreamed of. I could scarcely believe it was happening. I wished now that I had crept in and unpinned the map from the parlour wall and brought it with me, but that would have woken Joan. Instead I took it all in, all of the scenery and scents, until we arrived some hours later at the River Inn, a handsome hostelry on a neat street a little way down from Kelso’s market square and near the banks of the Tweed.

It was late afternoon by the time we got there and the world had warmed up a bit. As the driver handed the horses over to the ostler, and the gents got out and sorted their boxes, I stretched my legs to get the blood back into them. I had caught glimpses of the market town on our way in and I wanted to see it now. It reminded me of Musselburgh, with its riverbanks and white cottages, but was more dignified, without the screech of gulls overhead. The innkeeper’s wife assigned me to the attic where the ladies were put, and gave me the key to a small room with two beds.