Beneath the hills of Tweedsmuir fair,
Where winds sweep down through valley air,
There stood an inn of ancient fame,
The Crook, renowned in Scotland’s name.
Since sixteen hundred and four it stood,
Of stone and slate and seasoned wood,
Its hearth welcomed travellers through the years,
With laughter, stories, songs, and cheers.
Great Burns once rested by its fire,
And found in verse his heart’s desire,
While climbers gathered, maps unfurled,
Preparing journeys through the world.
For centuries its doors stayed wide,
Beside the Tweed’s unending tide,
Until at last the lights grew dim,
And silence settled deep within.
In two thousand and six the welcome ceased,
The voices faded, gatherings decreased,
The old inn slept behind locked gates,
Abandoned then to uncertain fates.
Yet folk whose roots ran deep and true
Knew what the Crook had journeyed through.
They would not see its story end,
Nor lose a cherished, lifelong friend.
So neighbours joined with hopeful hands,
Across the fields and Border lands.
They formed a cause, both proud and bold,
To save the Crook of days of old.
In twenty-twelve their dream took wing,
Determination blossomed into spring.
The community bought back the place,
And gave its future strength and grace.
Beside the inn, an old byre stood,
Weathered stone and ageing wood,
A steading worn by wind and rain,
Yet waiting to be born again.
Through care and labour, pound by pound,
New purpose in its walls was found.
Six hundred thousand helped restore
A welcome at the Crook once more.
Then twenty-twenty-two arrived,
And with it hope anew survived.
The Wee Crook Café opened wide,
With warm hearts gathered side by side.
Now walkers pause from hill and glen,
Cyclists rest their weary legs again,
And travellers winding up the road
Find comfort from their journey’s load.
Fresh lunches grace the wooden boards,
Home bakes earn praise beyond rewards,
Local artists share their craft with pride,
Their work displayed and celebrated inside.
Outside, the horsebox serves the day,
A cheerful stop along the way,
While gardens bloom and pathways wind
Through stories of another time.
And still the dream grows ever on,
Though many years have come and gone.
With bunkhouse plans and trails to roam,
The Crook once more becomes a home.
So here’s to those who chose to stand
For history, heart, and common land;
For proving when a community looks
With love, new life can grace old crooks.
The Wee Crook lives beneath the sky,
Where Borders hills roll softly by,
A testament in stone and oak:
The strength of ordinary folk.
