BRAPA .... NO PAIN IN DUNBLANE, SILLI COULTRY & A SAUCHIE DEVIL

Saturday 8th November 2025

Judy woz robbed

At the sign of Sir Andrew Murray's golden post box, I arrive in Dunblane on a grey damp Autumnal morn, keen to build on my pathetic total of ONE pub (Falkirk's excellent Wheatsheaf) in the area known in the Good Beer Guide as 'Loch Lomond, Stirling & Trossachs'.

There's not much of Scotland that is comfortably doable in the day from good ole' York, but the Stirling area is a fertile hunting ground and I will be back in January to mop up the ones I missed today.

You don't have to be a Wetherspoons to open early up here, the Scots don't like waiting until noon for their first wee dram of the day, so I was able to hit the ground running .....

Of all the drinks I was expecting to be pushed in the Village Inn, Dunblane (3122 / 5963), Vimto wasn't it. But it is everywhere! Not sure what Irn-Bru thinks of that. The two non-Vimto drinkers are both seated in the raised area. Myself, on a Harviestoun Bitter & Twisted the same temperature as the surface of the planet Neptune, but still one of today's better kept ales. And an old guy who makes the tricky three step climb with his walking stick, Daily Record tucked under his arm, drinking coke. I'm relieved when he hobbles back for a whisky seconds later. Brings a smile to my face when you see old gents wearing their suits and war medals for a trip down the local. A stodgy pub, purple, beige & cream is the colour scheme, like a can of Vimto, but warm and plush enough. Dreadful local art on the walls. Music by Pink Floyd and the Commodores. I'd rank this third out of the five pubs I visit today.

Tucked away across town is another decent GBG tick, making Dunblane a Scottish real ale capital. Corby, you'll never sing that.

A step up in quality at the Tappit Hen, Dunblane (3123 / 5964), named after a pewter and NOT a chicken who's been taking lessons off Lionel Blair as some wag informed me (not really, I made it up but didn't want to own my terrible joke). All that I love about Scottish pubs was here. Plentiful wood panelling and bench seating. Shiny mirrors. And a kind wobbly landlady who keeps walking around with a stepladder, climbing it, teetering on the brink like Mrs Doyle in the Father Ted Christmas Special, but managing not to fall. My Orkney Man o' Hoy was worse in Saltcoats, but better in both Kenilworth and Rothesay. Make of that what you will. Plus point for correctly identifying me as a CAMRA member and giving me 51p off my pint. Undercutting Mudgie vouchers by 1p. Brutal. Minus point for the litany of table reservations in an empty pub. Overall Si Scottish Voting (first employed in Cowdenbeath 2009) ranks this 2nd best pub today.

A train takes me back to Stirling. Now the easy, sensible decision would be to tick off Stirling itself, then perhaps sneak Larbert, Alloa or Falkirk 'Spoons in, but oh no, that felt too easy.

Possibly a mistake with hindsight.

But my thinking in that moment was that I'd made such a great start to the day, I could capitalise by doing something on a bus.

Before it departs, there's just enough time to keep my pre-emptive run of 'Spoons ticks going and sneak into Stirling's non GBG effort for a swift half, apologies for the photo, I was against the clock so took it whilst running across a road ......

Not on a steep hill

It bodes well for Stirling's three actual ticks (AND I notice a fair bit of rotation in recent years) that I find Crossed Peels, Stirling fairly impressive. That Dark Fruits (not Strongbow) which I drank in Largs was good again, and although staff and clientele emit an 'Ember Level of Misery' (incidentally the title of my forthcoming Bluegrass Cajun Mariachi Swing album out in January), a trip upstairs to the little boys room reveals a larger upstairs barroom with far happier folk behind a huge glass globe like human goldfish.

The downstairs misery lot

Stirling bus station is incredibly sociable. I get into two chats with old wimmin, then a teen asks if I want to finish off his can of coke (what was it with fizzy drinks today? The answer was an emphatic 'NO FANKS!') before a chirrupy toothless hag helps me board the right bus instead of going to Causewayhead, wherever that is.

Then old lady IV (my fave) dressed as a tea cosy works out that I'm getting off at the same stop as her using mind control, and points me towards the pub, and wishes me an ominous 'good luck'. She didn't add 'you'll need it' but it is heavily implied.

A beautiful town, surrounded by hills, though the wild terrain had me fearing I'd bitten off more than I could chew. Worse was to follow ......

That big red 'T' above the door was trying to give me a clue which beer to go for, but I didn't listen! What the 'eck have I just walked into? I wouldn't say intimidating, it was almost friendly, it's just they're a rugged old bunch, there's loads of them, and they're all looking at me. And my English 'can oi 'av a pint of real ale mister?' does nothing to help. American Werewolf in Jockland. That's a film I'd watch. Royal Arms, Tillicoultry (3124 / 5965). First ale comes out cloudy muck. "Ye can't give him that!" yells a discerning local. "Do you want to try it anyway?" suggests the landlord with nose of Richarlison, encouragingly. I don't, but I take a sip to keep the peace. Vinegar. He pulls a replacement. "Ye should've stuck to lager!" shouts a voice, can't tell where it is coming from but one of the lads. I laugh sourly. "There ya go, that's better!" says the main man pulling me the Rev James Reserve. But its got that dry acrid apple 'on too soon' taste. I lie and say it is fine. How was this the same beer I'd loved in Chinnor recently? I'm largely ignored after that (thankfully). Wishing there was a plant pot handy, I perch on the back radiator, Terry Waitesesque, peering around a funny couple to watch Man Utd v Spurs. Which reminds me, Hull City were drawing 2-2 when I hopped off the bus, must be full time now. Flashscores, sweaty palms ...... hurrah! A 3-2 win, versus mighty Pompey. So I DO get to smile in here once. I've had a great last three months for Scottish beer, but this was a timely reminder that you are more likely to have a real ale disaster up here than in any English or Welsh county, fact!

Surely the town's other pub would be better, even if it did resemble a dirty shed / village hall. Pint of Skol? I would.

Well, the Bitter & Twisted tasted like hot glue, gravy and compost at the Volunteer Arms, Tillicoultry (3125 / 5966) the handpump was hidden behind the bar which won't encourage cask sales. Though it started well enough to be a vast improvement on the Royal. A cosy low slung club of a pub inside. Had they not kept the yucky bolted-on perspex partitions of the 2020/21 era, I'd have been commending the interior as a triumph. The atmosphere was much calmer, some might say a bit dead, but after recent events I'd say careful what you wish for.

I'll be filing Tillicoultry along with Newent, Kinghorn and Limekilns under 'double GBG pub towns providing BRAPA with dreadful beer experiences'. I'm sure there's more, I'll sleep on it.

But at least we had the scenery and some late afternoon sun as the bus chugs heartily in the direction of Sauchie for pub five .....

I was scarred after Tillicoultry but I needn't have been ......

Mansfield Arms, Sauchie (3126 / 5967) is my winner. They brew their own ales for heaven's sake, called Devon. Drinking Devon in Mansfield in Scotland? My five pint brain couldn't take it. It's a boisterous scene at the bar and this poor waif of a bloke who looks like he hasn't eaten or had a day off for two years is rushing from pillar to post to single-handedly serve his demanding thirsty patrons. Not a handpump in sight, but when I ask, he reels off a plethora of beer styles in one syllable, and I only really catch 'IPA' so I go for that. Blimmin' glorious. My dark mental cloud disappears, this was happy BRAPA. A red throbbing theatrical ghost of a boozer, a pleasure to sit in. The pub clock chimes, I'm in danger of lingering too long.

In fact, I have lingered too long. As I walk towards Alloa, with their Bobbing John 'Spoons my intention, a few transport calculations reveal the awful truth. If I don't catch the next Edinburgh connection via Stirling, I'm in danger of missing my Waverley to York.

I swear I suffered a time-slip somewhere around pub three. I was cruising. I guess some of those beers were impossible to drink in 25 minutes! Five ticks when I'd half been expecting seven back in Dunblane is a disappointing outcome. But to quote Mudgie on the night "The Spoons will be in the Guide one day". And to quote Cooking Lager's follow up "Spoons WILL be the Guide soon".

The train home is carnage. First I think I'm surrounded by lost Hartlepool fans thinking they were away to Forfar, but a friendly Geordie Angela eating loadsa crisps with Prosecco tells me it is some Newcastle away trip beano. My pigs in blankets and Jimmy's iced coffee (no Arctic up here) keep my pecker up, and after Durham, all is calm.

I'm running out of pre-Christmas blogging opportunities but I'll be able to bang one out on Sunday, if not earlier. Then I'll mop up Central London.

Keep keeping it pub, Si