02. Arbroath to Edinburgh and the Lothian Coast

You roll into Arbroath with the smell of the North Sea and smoke from the fish huts drifting on the breeze. The harbour sits snug behind its walls, a jumble of boats, ropes and weathered sheds where Arbroath smokies are still prepared the old way over smouldering oak. You can hear gulls arguing overhead and the slap of water against the stone, and it feels easy to slow down here, wandering between red sandstone buildings and salty little lanes.

A short walk takes you up towards the clifftops, where the coastline suddenly opens into a run of dramatic rock arches, sea stacks and caves. The wind is often brisk, the grass flattened and shiny from the constant breeze, and all you hear is the rush of waves and the occasional whistle of oystercatchers. Somewhere inland lies Arbroath Abbey, birthplace of the Declaration of Arbroath and one of Scotland’s great historical moments, but at the shoreline you’re firmly in the present: hands wrapped around a hot cone of smokie and chips, watching the light move across the water.

St Andrews: a town that has somehow learned to be three things at once. You arrive to wide, tidy streets and honey-coloured stone buildings, students on bikes weaving between golfers in bright jumpers and day-trippers with cameras. The ruined cathedral and castle sit on their headland, open to sea and sky, adding a slightly haunted grandeur to what is otherwise a very lively place.

You can wander from the medieval closes of the old town straight onto the long sweep of West Sands, where the tide seems to retreat for miles and the wind carries the tang of salt and seaweed. This is the home of golf, and you’ll spot the Old Course woven right into the fabric of the town, fairways crossing roads and footpaths. At the same time, the ancient university presence gives everything a bookish, faintly eccentric air. You grab a coffee from a cosy café, watch seabirds glide over the Eden Estuary, and feel like you’ve stepped into a place where history, sport and student life all coexist comfortably.

As you drive into Edinburgh, the city seems to rise in layers of stone. The castle sits high on its volcanic rock, watching over the jumble of the Old Town’s wynds and closes, while the ordered lines of the New Town stretch out beneath with elegant crescents and Georgian doorways. You park up and set out on foot, feeling cobbles under your shoes and catching snippets of buskers’ tunes bouncing off the buildings.

You might follow the Royal Mile downhill from the castle towards Holyrood, ducking into little lanes where hidden courtyards and tiny pubs reveal themselves. The air carries a mix of roasting coffee, street food and city rain on warm stone. If you climb Calton Hill or Arthur’s Seat, the whole city unfurls below: the Firth of Forth glinting to the north, church spires pricking the skyline, trains sliding in and out of Waverley station. Edinburgh manages to feel grand and intimate at the same time – a capital city where you can still find quiet corners with a view, a dram and a story.

Leith has its own pulse, separate from the formal rhythm of central Edinburgh. Down by the Water of Leith and around the docks, old warehouses have become flats, studios and bars, and the waterfront hums with a more easy-going, everyday energy. You stroll along the Shore and feel the slight give of old cobbles under your feet, passing doorways spilling out conversation and the clink of glasses.

Ships from all over the world once docked here, unloading everything from timber to wine, and that maritime history lingers in the air. The Royal Yacht Britannia now sits at Ocean Terminal, a reminder of another era of travel and ceremony. But your experience is more grounded: good coffee, independent shops, street art tucked into alleys, and the soft rush of the river under little bridges. As the evening comes on, lights from restaurants reflect in the dark water and you sense why Leith has become a favourite corner of the city – a place where you can feel close to the sea and still be firmly in the heart of things.

Musselburgh wraps itself around the mouth of the River Esk, a working town with a long memory. You arrive to neat stone terraces, a stretch of promenade and the steady murmur of everyday life – kids cycling along the front, dog walkers tracing the same route they’ve taken for years, gulls hovering hopefully over the fish and chip shop. This is “The Honest Toun,” a nickname dating back to medieval times, and it still has that straightforward, quietly proud feel.

You can walk the riverside path, listening to the water sliding past old bridges, or wander out to the racecourse where horses thunder round a track that has seen centuries of racing. The harbour is small but characterful, with boats resting at low tide on the mud, and beyond it lies a sweep of beach with Forth bridges and distant Edinburgh on the horizon. It’s not a showy stop, but that’s the charm. Musselburgh gives you a glimpse of everyday coastal life in East Lothian – a good place to stretch your legs, grab something warm to eat and watch the tide do its slow, patient work.

Gullane is a stretch of coastline built for breathing space. You park up near Marine Terrace and follow the sandy paths over low dunes until the landscape suddenly opens into a huge, pale beach. On a calm day the Firth of Forth lies smooth and silver; on a windy one, the waves march in white-topped lines and the air is full of salt and the rustle of marram grass.

Behind you, the land rises into rolling linksland, dotted with some of Scotland’s most famous golf courses. For over a century, people have been coming here to walk, play and paddle, but the beach still feels beautifully open and uncluttered. You might wander for an hour with only a few distant figures and a dog or two for company, footprints quickly brushed away by the breeze. It’s the perfect place to step away from the car, skim stones into the surf, and let the horizon reset your eyes after city streets and busy roads. As the light drops, the sky over Fife glows soft pink and orange, and you’ll be glad this stop is on your route.

The Laws rise gently above the surrounding farmland, low volcanic bumps that offer a surprisingly big view for such modest height. You turn off the main road, follow narrow lanes between fields, and park where the tarmac gives way to track. The climb is short but steep enough to warm your legs, the path threaded through gorse and rough grass, with skylarks often singing somewhere above.

At the top, the landscape spreads away in every direction. To the north, the sea glints beyond the coastal towns; to the south, the Lammermuirs roll in muted blues and browns. North Berwick Law, with its whalebone arch, stands out clearly, and on a clear day you can pick out the Bass Rock crouched in the water like a white sugar loaf covered in gannets. These little hills are remnants of ancient volcanic plugs, the bones of long-vanished fire. Up here, with the wind tugging at your jacket and the sound of distant traffic barely reaching you, the route you’ve been driving suddenly makes sense as a line through a much older landscape.

North Berwick is  instantly welcoming, a proper seaside town with just the right amount of bustle. The streets near the harbour are lined with ice-cream shops, bakeries and small galleries, and you can hear the soft clatter of masts and the chatter of families as you wander down towards the water. Two beaches curve away on either side, sand dotted with rock pools and backed by grassy banks where people hunker down out of the breeze.

Out in the Firth of Forth, Bass Rock dominates the view, its white-streaked cliff faces alive with thousands of nesting gannets. Boat trips run out to the rock and along the coast, adding a little sense of adventure to your stop. If you climb North Berwick Law, the extinct volcano that watches over the town, you’re rewarded with a panorama of the coastline you’ve been following. This is a place where locals and visitors blend easily – golfers heading to nearby courses, day-trippers with sandy shoes, dog walkers who clearly know every inch of the shore. You might arrive for a quick stroll and find yourself still here at sunset, watching the sky burn orange behind the islands.

Eyemouth sits tucked into a natural bay, its harbour cupped by practical stone arms that have seen their share of storms. As you drive down into town, the buildings feel close and sturdy, built to withstand North Sea weather. Fishing boats still work from here, and you’ll often catch the smell of diesel, salt and fresh fish as you walk along the quayside, ropes creaking softly against metal cleats.

This coast has a dramatic history: smuggling tunnels, shipwrecks and the tragic Great East Coast Fishing Disaster of 1881, when many local men were lost at sea. The town remembers, but it doesn’t feel heavy – more like a quiet pride in having endured. You might visit the museum, feed the curious harbour seals that bob near the boats, or simply sit on the sea wall with a bag of chips, watching the gulls wheel. A cliff path leads out to dramatic viewpoints where the wind can be fierce enough to make you laugh out loud. Eyemouth is a working town rather than a polished resort, and that authenticity gives it a particular charm as you near the border.

Berwick-upon-Tweed welcomes you with red-roofed houses climbing above the river and a tangle of bridges spanning the Tweed. This is a border town in every sense – Scottish in some ways, English in others, and historically tugged back and forth between the two. You can still walk the old Elizabethan town walls, following their curve above rooftops and gardens, with the river on one side and narrow streets on the other.

From the ramparts you see trains flashing across the graceful Royal Border Bridge, salmon boats on the water and the North Sea opening out beyond. Down in the town, alleyways and courtyards reveal themselves slowly: an old barracks here, a quiet churchyard there, small shops tucked into corners. The air smells of river mud, stone warmed by the sun and the occasional waft from a bakery. It’s a place to pause at the end of your coastal run, to reflect on how far you’ve come and how many versions of Scotland you’ve passed through. With one foot in each country, Berwick feels like both an ending and a gentle invitation to keep exploring.