Smugglers' cove

Tell people that you're off to some remote part of Scotland like South Uist or Shetland and they'll smile knowingly and probably recommend a good place to eat. Tell them you're going to St Abbs and they'll generally look blank and ask, "Where's that?"

Although it's only about an hour from Edinburgh and two hours from Glasgow, St Abbs attracts few casual visitors. The only time you seem to hear it mentioned is on the shipping forecast - generally followed by the words "north easterly five, continuous light drizzle". I used to wonder if it even existed or if it was just some mysterious expanse of sea - like Dogger, Fisher or German Bight. But as I discovered a few weeks ago, this forgotten fragment of coastline has a charm all its own, an air of ancient isolation that makes you feel as if you have stepped into the pages of a Robert Louis Stevenson book.

Cove was our first stop - a tiny fishing village near Cockburnspath just off the A1 and a favourite haunt of the Glasgow Boys, who painted it on several occasions. Cove is the archetypal smugglers' den with steep cliffs, picturesque cottages and a hidden harbour that is reached via a dark, dank, atmospheric tunnel. We sat on the harbour wall in the weak winter sun and watched the seagulls wheeling curiously above us, surprised that anyone should have found their hideaway. It felt as if we had been transported to 18th- century Cornwall and we half expected to see a little boat appear, laden down with smuggled brandy or tobacco.

After an hour or so of drinking in the seaweedy air, we reluctantly left Cove and drove on to Coldingham, one of those border villages that seems neither Scottish nor English in character. It's a small, sleepy place, peopled by fishing folk and farmers, but there are memories of past glories in the unexpectedly imposing church. This incorporates the ruins of a prosperous priory that was founded by King Edgar in 1098 for Benedictine monks from Durham. Although it was frequently damaged during border conflicts with England, it thrived until 1648 when it was almost destroyed by Cromwell.

We strolled around the church for a while, but hunger got the better of history and we soon made for the nearby Anchor Inn for lunch. We ate good thick chips and chatted to the landlord, who filled us in on the local gossip and told us, without a hint of irony, that Coldingham was a cosmopolitan settlement - unlike St Abbs, which didn't even boast a pub. It seemed a liberal interpretation of the term "cosmopolitan" - but then that's rural living for you.

St Abbs is one of the UK's top dive sites in the and turned out to be a pretty, slightly tangled, village full of divers flopping about like oversized seals, and sunburned sailors who stared at us with frank - but friendly - curiosity. It's the only marine reserve in Scotland and a diver's paradise with clear waters, diverse marine life and several accessible wrecks. There are seals and porpoises, thick kelp forests, colourful corals, and large wolf fish. It is a close-knit community, the sort of place where strangers are noticed in seconds. A place where daily life is still governed by the tides, just as it was 100 years ago - although now the boatmen make a better living from diving than from fishing and have sleek mobile phones stuffed inside their waterproofs.

After exploring the village we drove the short distance to the St Abbs Head Nature Reserve Centre, where we parked the car and sat outside drinking strong cups of tea bought from the little cafe. The area is renowned for its bird life and there were several twitchers already there, all armed with binoculars. They included a small group of Italians, a French couple, and an English family - but no Scots.

We set off to walk the cliff path to St Abbs Head, a rugged headland etched with sheer sea cliffs and dramatically deep gullies. In spring and summer these become home to thousands of sea birds like guillemots, razorbills, puffins, fulmars and kittiwakes. This is one of those places that gives you double helpings of fresh air. Although it was mild, the wind blew our hair so viciously that it slapped our faces and made our cheeks sting.

Eventually we reached the most exposed point of the headland, on which sits a lighthouse, built in 1862 by Robert Louis Stevenson's father. As we stood there enjoying its stark beauty it was easy to imagine that the nearest city was hundreds of miles away Robert Louis Stevenson's pirates surely passed through Cove; but nearby St Abbs is far more cosmopolitan, says Rebecca Ford

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