Saturday 30th May 2026
Encouraged by my recent Aberdeenshire exploits, I head back up to Jockland in optimistic mood for what I hope would be a day of high quality beers + pubs.
This will be my last Scottish trip for quite some time, as I have bigger fish to fry. Those fish being Wales, East Anglia and the South West. Riddled with parasites before cooking.
But BRAPA history tells me that Edinburgh + The Lothians can be a beery struggle, and Daddy BRAPA's Scottish record is rougher than when I travel alone.
It starts with a train to Dunbar. The grimy middle streets causing us to joke that Yank National Park founder and celebrated son John Muir escaped for Yosemite as soon as he popped out of the womb, like "och aye, next ship outta here please!"
But reach the harbour and Dunbar becomes very pleasant. Squint and you could be in Mevagissey. We'd arrived far too early for the pubs. I'd researched a toastie cafe, but it was just a shut van guarded by an evil pirate.
We DO find a proper café though, run by an army of cute young women with the combined faces of Jimmy Krankie, Martel Maxwell and Super Gran. The Victoria Sponge and Cortado (who?) coffee arguably the highlight of this entire day. Which gives you a clue of what's to follow.
11:30am finally arrived, so we start meandering slowly like a Halifax micro bear towards Belhaven, a name which strikes beer fear into me I cannot lie.
Dad chats cordially with the plant-watering publican about the arcane art of 'gardening', and then we're allowed in. Brig & Barrel, Belhaven (3459 / 6249) is again manned (womanned?) by a cheerful army, trying to force clipboard menus into our chests. I'm forced to explain on three separate occasions that we're only here for a drink. The one ale on isn't Belhaven, but a Sorachi lager from Harviestoun. Popular with the locals we're told. Warm + furry, which isn't great when you're not a Sorachi and/or lager fan either. Dad's deafness helps us as the staff imply that we'll need to either perch at the bar, or go outside. Having not heard them, Dad goes all 'Andy Little Britain', points at a table and goes "want that one!" Staff bow to Bernard's demands and admit we're okay as long as we're gone by 1pm. Next, helium balloons are wheeled in bearing the numbers '5' and '0' and the staff faff around sticking them to walls and ceilings. I'm relieved we won't be subjected to the forthcoming celebrations. Suddenly we're rushing for our bus because we've forgotten to pay! Always the problem when they don't take payment at time of drink ordering. "Not drunk already, surely" chuckles an annoying barmaid. It summed up a 'pub' that meant well but really had no pubby clue.
East Linton is our destination, and my failure to tick the pub during the last GBG year has worked in my favour because they've added a second pub making it something of a real ale haven in these parts. But would it deliver?
The dreadfully named Crown & Kitchen, East Linton (3460 / 6250) feels like a simple Crown to me, but heaven forbid anyone thought this was simply a pub. I'm surprised to see a football match on the TV sparking minimal attention, being all football'd out myself after last week's Wembley joy. Ah, a Scotland World Cup warm up. "Who ya playing?" I ask the bloke on my right. "Coooorakko" he butchers. "Oh, Curacao?" I correct. "Aye, maybe". He admits. No maybe about it mate. "Like the blue drink, same colour as your shirt!" I explain. He chuckles, thinks I've taken leave of my senses. "Well, good luck!" I lie, following Daddy BRAPA outside who is looking for a cool empty area, Steve Clarke's failure to pick Owlie's namesake Oli McBurnie means it'll be hard for me to support them at the WC. Though once in Somerset, I DID end up willing them not to defend like dorks against Brazil, not that it worked. We sit in the beer garden, sorry building site, and although it has a strange aftertaste, the Pentland IPA from inconsistent Stewart's is an okay pint. Dad admires an antique bench being left out to rot cos he has a good eye for these things. So that was nice.
Marginally closer to our bus stop, our exciting second East Linton tick can be found.
The also dreadfully named Linton Restaurant with Rooms, East Linton (3461 / 6251) appears to have a cask shortage. Seeing me scanning the empty handpumps, the guy behind the bar confirms "yup, none of them are on". What's the GBG coming to when rather than feeling sad and let down, I feel relief like 'thank god I don't have to run the Lothians cask gauntlet and have the decision taken out of my hands?!" The Guinness is decent, the dirty glass giving it 'chip shop' ballast. Guy behind the bar confesses he's only helping out so doesn't know how anything works, so asks me to pay in a specific way. I can't remember how! Thankfully, the pub name doesn't match the surroundings. It is the nicest one to sit in today, a basic boozer, vaguely attractive windows, and the punters are sound. A guy spies my Tim Taylor's top, says he likes their ale, 'Landlord' he thinks it is called, and is astonished to learn it is a Yorkshire brew, having believed it was a Belhaven classic. He's on his way to a wedding. Dad, supping down half a keg Doom with mild exuberance thinks he looks like both Proclaimers, I'm seeing more Ed Sheeran. Similar(!) The locals even join in my amusement at Scotland 0-1 Curacao but a sending off and equaliser soon follows. "We needed that!" breathes a jolly librarian with Turkey teeth. I remind her they're playing Brazil soon. If we sup up quick, we can catch this bus ..... so we do.
Up next is my second trip to Haddington after 2022's Waterside Bistro was posh but amusing. I considered another recent GBG entry, the Golf Tavern, to tick post-emptively but it has since shut permanently.
The confusingly named Tyneside Tavern, Haddington (3462 / 6252) is rammed with vertical Tartan Army types. They're leaving Curacao for dust now. 4-1, oof! Dad says he'll go and find a quiet area / beer garden and I get my elbows in at the bar. Tim Taylor Golden Best is the apt beer choice considering my recent chat, and it is the best GBG pint of the day. Dad's found an outdoor table so we smuggle our snacks but he's paranoid that the table behind us (friends with the staff) have grassed us up when he notices two barmaid's come outside and stare at us for a couple of minutes! I was oblivious so can't comment. The garden is twildy and twoggy, and the loos have a fake Allo Allo mural which is quite upsetting. Humid like Guadalajara, it had been blobbing with raindrops in East Linton but any air-clearing storm has failed to materialise. Billy Joel's 'Scenes from an Italian Restaurant' briefly raises my spirits, perhaps a deliberate song choice because the pub is part 'Italian kitchen'. It was nice when we left.
A bus takes us to a debut BRAPA place called Tranent. An anagram of 'R Tennents, which spelt trouble, and maybe this should've also acted as an early warning .....
We cross the road, happy to avoid the Tranent Arms where wailing karaoke and motivated smokers spill out of the entrance.
'Ah, CAMRA's obviously taking us to the more demure pub off centre' we agree, walking away from the main drag. After all, this is a National Inventory pub ..... I mean look at the curvature and stained glass feature ....
Alas, proof that you should never judge a book by its cover. Tower Inn, Tranent (3463 / 6253) will be up there for 'BRAPA shithole of the year' when I'm judging the end of year awards on NYE. The scowls on the pool players faces suggest they weren't a fan of the above photo, in fact for a second I thought we were going to be blocked from coming in! The high ceiling accentuates the noise reverberating around the boisterous bar but our landlady is made of the right stuff, in that 'tough as old boots because it is the only way to survive working here' kinda way. Today's second cask fail is no big surprise. But they do have a keg IPA that looks 'interesting'. 'If I can get you a pint of it out, I will!' she says rolling her eyes. It splutters. Two trips to the cellar. I can only peer in slightly but it looks dark, cobwebby & dungeonesque. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Joey Fritzl is down there playing cards with Maddie McCann. Thankfully the pub is huge, and although it appears to be decorated for Christmas, we swerve a few low flying darts and find a sticky seat right at the back. Clientele's a bit more student, yoofier, gentler back here. The keg IPA is one of the most atrocious things I've tasted all year. Fizzy water at best. Steve R. from Carnoustie tells me it is Belhaven / GK's new offering and is supposed to taste like that. Dad tells me he's off to stand outside cos he's seen enough. I tell him I won't be long, and I'm not!
Back at the bus stop, Tranent humanity alert! Two young Mum's with pushchairs, both independently of each other, take it upon themselves to give us bus advice even though we hadn't asked for it. And neither have any intention of catching a bus, they're just here for a rest. They whizz off down the road as soon as a bus shows up. Bizarre. Incredible place. You must visit.
To take the pressure off our bladders / a long Edinburgh bus trip, I decide there's still enough time to take us to Musselburgh. I'm determined to show Daddy BRAPA that he shouldn't lose faith in Scottish pubs, they CAN be great, so I take him to a former fave of mine, the Volunteer Arms / Staggs.
But it was destined to be an unlucky pub day for us. The main bar is heaving with the Lothian branch of Gooners as Arsenal are playing in the Champions League final. Dad later tells me I walked straight past a pub queue to the bar, I just thought they were watching TV, oops, NOT that I feel too guilty! An incredible pint of stout from Durty of Innerleithen is easily pint of the day, the bloke behind me chants "1-0 to the Arsenal" but his mates are unaware that this is a famous chant of the past, so I have to turn round and tell him I understand what he's on about, which he appreciates, even if I have probably pushed in front of him. Dad too admits he can appreciate something of the pubs architectural delights even if we are forced to stand on the edge of the smoking cabin outside, a quarter getting rained on, half inhaling nicotine, a quarter watching the Arse. Yep, the pub isn't a patch on when I ticked it in 2022 - which was my 2,211th GBG tick if you care!
At least we can train it to Waverley from here, although the lady announcer keeps going on about 'sex carriages' which is kinda disturbing.
To top off this angsty day, there's a brief flashpoint getting onto the train south as this loud blonde simpleton tells this spooky tattooed mute Asian dude with dead eyes to have some respect and let nice people like me and Dad on first.
Whilst we appreciated his efforts on that occasion, he later gets into another barny with a different dude about voice volume levels, which coincides with a fun FlashScores watchalong where Arse lose on penalties!
Worra day. Over a month on, Dad grimaces every time the events of the day get recalled.
Deep breaths everyone. And keep it pub, but not Lothians,
Si
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