Hidden Hops & Lanna Nights: A 3-Day Craft Beer and Microbrewery Trail Through Chiang Mai’s Backstreets

Late morning light spills over Nimman’s low rooftops, catching on tangled power lines and bougainvillea as scooters hum past. You ease into Chiang Mai the way locals do on a slow day off: coffee and something comforting at a tucked-away café, then a temple that smells of moss and incense instead of tour buses. By lunchtime, curry and beer arrive in the same breath – a plate of rich sauce, a cold local brew, and the soft clatter of conversations in Thai and English around you. Afternoon is for tasting, not rushing. A small brewery bar offers flights of Thai IPAs and pale ales, the room cool and clean, stainless steel glinting under soft lighting while the heat outside bounces off concrete. As the sun drops, dinner shifts the mood – a homey restaurant where plates arrive fast and generous, the air fragrant with coconut, lime, and charcoal. Night belongs to a rooftop: wind tugging at your shirt, city lights flickering toward Doi Suthep, and the low thrum of conversation rising with each round. Tomorrow, the Wi‑Fi crowd gives way to temple bells and old brick, but tonight you let Nimman’s soft glow and strong pours set the tone.

Morning in the Old City feels different: softer light, temple bells, and the smell of incense drifting across the moat. You wander past crumbling walls and potted jasmine toward a centuries-old chedi, brick worn smooth by time, and sit for a moment just listening to sandals on stone and the low chant from a nearby hall. Lunch is close by, in a small restaurant where the staff seem genuinely delighted that you’re hungry and curious, ladling out coconut-rich khao soi and stir-fries that crackle as they hit the table. Afternoon is for wandering – through side streets where laundry flaps above you and small cafés hide behind carved wooden doors – before you slip into a craft-focused bar that feels more like a friend’s studio than a pub. By dinner, you’re in a converted house, dishes arriving like a quiet procession, each one a little story about northern flavors. Night drops and the Old City changes gear: wooden shutters open, neon beer signs flicker on, and a tiny bar on a side street pours Thai brews for a mix of regulars and the few visitors who’ve done their homework. Tomorrow, you’ll leave the moat behind for jungle temples and suburban beer gardens, but today is about brick, stories, and bottles.

Morning starts with the sound of insects and water instead of engines. As you climb into the hills above Chiang Mai, the city drops away and the air cools, carrying the smell of wet stone and leaves. At a temple half-swallowed by forest, you hear only the rush of a waterfall and the occasional soft murmur of a monk; it’s a good place to sit, barefoot on cool stone, and think about how last night’s beers feel in your body. Back in town, lunch is a slow, slightly fancy affair in a converted house where servers explain dishes like they’re introducing you to old friends. Afternoon takes you out of the center to a small neighborhood beer garden, the kind of place locals drive to for IPA flights and real conversation, fairy lights strung over wooden tables as kids ride bikes nearby. Dinner brings you back toward the river, to a spot where the Ping slides by in the dark and plates keep pace with your glass. The night ends with one last bar – maybe a sports bar in a business park, maybe a tiny local craft spot – where you feel less like a visitor and more like someone who might, in another life, have been a regular. Tomorrow you’ll fly out, but tonight the city feels comfortably small, like a neighborhood you’ve finally learned how to drink.