Sitwell stirs it up William visits Caddy Mann in Jedburgh

William tucks in to some hearty British classics

When St Cuthbert was dragging his monkish habits around the Scottish Borders back in the seventh century, he wouldn’t have flinched at the sight of a carpet on entering a hostelry (although, admittedly, there probably weren’t many hostelries back then, and even fewer carpets). Doubtless the warmth offered would have soothed the brow of this hermit, who lived for a time in the pretty town of Melrose before spending the rest of his life in a cell on one of the Farne islands off the Northumbrian coast.

After his death, a cult emerged in his wake, with miracles being attributed to him, and schools, societies and churches being named after him. There is also a 62-mile, four-day walk – St Cuthbert’s Way – which skirts past Mounthooly, north of Jedburgh, and the Caddy Mann proves a timely stop for those making the pilgrimage from Melrose Abbey to Holy Island. Indeed, a sign at the front of this bungalow of a restaurant asks that passing walkers, ‘Please Remove Muddy Boots’. So the carpet doubtless soothes them. Yet it disturbed me, what with my absurd southern sensibilities. I mean carpet your dining room at home, by all means, but not your public restaurant. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t carpet your kitchen would you? Or if so, you and I best part company now. It won’t end well.

The carpet at Caddy Mann may be hoovered between services but it still gave me the creeps, as did the fabric of the tablecloth – that wipe-clean poly-something or other – the corner display unit next to me with its covering of dust and the pictures that hang with price tags on all of them which, I’m sure, have remained there with price tags for many years.

All of which narky, this-placefeels-like-an-old-people’s-home gripes I need get off my chest before settling in. Which my friend and I both did, having initially thought, ‘Really?’ on entering this bric-a-brac shop/restaurant. In fact, the place had what you might call a Misery vibe to it; that feeling when you enter a place that you can no longer exit, that you may be held captive and have your ankles broken.

But such fears quickly dissipated with the one waitress/manager’s friendly service and a very wholesome and delicious lunch.

The menu is a celebration of British classics and local produce, from pigeon and beef to venison and haggis. My chicken-liver pâté starter could not have been bettered. It was not over-whisked, but nicely fluffy, smooth and with a drizzle of redonion jam that was just tart enough to match the sweet liver. There was a delicate garnish of tiny leaves and pea shoots and, with a roundel of toast, it was a dish of perfect proportions. My pal Dillon was equally effusive about his roasted woodpigeon breast.

The ‘Caddy Mann lamb’ had grabbed my attention with its promise of a slow 18-hour cooking process and it was a succulent and tasty dream. This place being a touch old-fashioned, along came a bowl of veg as well as chips. The latter were as described: ‘real and proper’ (crunchy on the out, fluffy on the in), and while the carrots and cabbage were cut and looked like school food, they were superb: sweet, cooked to just the right texture, again faultless. We shared a chocolate tart, which came on circles of dark sauce and with a delicious scoop of crunchy chocolate ice cream.

As we dined and feasted and lapped up every morsel of every dish, I felt a little guilty about my initial thoughts. But then how fabulous it would be if the décor and vibe could match the exquisite precision of the chef… OK, so the walkers might miss the carpet as they sat there in their socks, but with a little stylish vision, the Caddy Mann could leap from its post-war shackles and be as much of a draw as St Cuthbert’s mouldy bones.