Like you, I’m getting a bit bored of these Scottish posts now. The problem is the pubs are all photogenic and you can’t just lump half a dozen together like you can in, ooh, Maidenhead.
Along with the Aberdeen trip last month these reports now make up 85.7% of my blog this year (FACT), and it’s time to return to grotty Midlands pubs and get away from all this deep-fried haggis.
It ends now, where it started, at Waverley Station over a mug of flat white.
You don’t believe that, do you ?
It ended with some late exercise scaling the steps between the Royal Mile and Market Street.
Then I heard the laughter coming from the Halfway House.
You literary types will know the Halfway House (that only fit people can reach) as the star of “Fleshmarket Close“, the only Rebus book I ever read. I believe that Deuchars IPA killed him.
More importantly, this is the pub where a five year old Matthew Taylor got told off for putting his feet on the bar stools. I blame the mother.
I gave the Halfway House top marks back in 2006, and a few years later, while Mrs RM popped in for Cullen Skink* while on one of her glamour IT jobs last year.
Some unfamiliar names on the bar, a bit unexpected given the usual (but excellent) suspects earlier.
Looks like I only had a half of the Murray’s Pale Ale with the retro pump clip, presumably a rare show of restraint with my train departing in 15 minutes.
Another tiny bar, almost a micro, and hardly a “cask stronghold” with Tennents to the fore.
But Edinburgh was on a roll, the Murray’s was a 3.5, a civilised single bar had gentlefolk in jumpers swaying to Bryan Ferry’s “Don’t Stop The Dance“, and it was as good as you could possibly hope.
Anyway, that was my lot.
Oh, apart from this.
I set my alarm to wake me up as I approached York, and Peterborough, and Stevenage. None of those connections were long enough for a pint.
*It’s not contagious