Plymouth

Climbing aboard the South Devon Steam Railway is less train travel, more time travel-you're stepping straight into a sepia-toned postcard from Britain's nostalgia-soaked past. Puffing languidly out of the charmingly named Buckfastleigh Station (a word that sounds suspiciously like a tonic for monks), this vintage locomotive rattles and hisses through postcard-perfect countryside, past fields greener than your granny's Sunday jumper, under bridges so old you half-expect Agatha Christie herself to peek over the parapet. Aim for a mid-morning departure; any earlier and you're competing with camera-toting retirees fresh from a full English breakfast, any later and the afternoon sun tends to lull unsuspecting adventurers into a cholesterol-induced doze. Booking online a week ahead will spare embarrassment at the ticket booth, and budgeting around £20 per adult will leave you enough spare change to sample Devon scones afterward (cream first, then jam-locals are surprisingly militant on this front). Bring your camera, a paperback mystery novel, and an appetite for quaintness-because riding rails once ruled by Victorian industrialists is worth it, if only to casually drop into conversation later that you spent the day steaming through the English countryside, Bill Bryson-style, in pursuit of absolutely nothing except good scenery and eccentric authenticity.

Setting sail toward the famously isolated Eddystone Lighthouse perched defiantly atop the treacherous Eddystone Rocks is a bit like willingly stepping into one of those British maritime dramas, minus the scurvy or naval discipline. Built and rebuilt no less than four times-thanks largely to storms, fires, and the whims of a capricious ocean-the lighthouse's history rivals Game of Thrones for ruthless drama. Book yourself an early-morning boat trip (think crack-of-dawn coffee, sturdy shoes, and a waterproof jacket-the sea spray is liberal, and nature never heard about keeping tourists comfortable), and budget around £40-£50 per head for three glorious hours of maritime mayhem. Plan at least a week ahead; oddly enough, isolated Victorian structures surrounded by shipwreck risks have become rather popular with quirky travelers. Pack binoculars, ginger sweets to settle any rebellious stomachs, and a flask of something warming because nothing complements rugged nautical history like discreet inner warmth. Whether you're fascinated by engineering marvels, haunted by tales of centuries-old disasters, or just weirdly compelled by remote rocks with stubborn, tragic architecture, this slightly absurd, oddly majestic journey is worth every penny-even if only for the smug pub bragging rights guaranteed by surviving the choppy passage to England's loneliest sentinel.

If your idea of a good vacation involves swapping sun-kissed beaches and overpriced cocktails for mist-shrouded moors and ghost stories that raise hairs you didn't know existed, then Dartmoor's Myths and Legends Tour is your perfect cup of peculiar. Dartmoor, that wonderfully windswept and bleakly beautiful expanse in Devon, England, has been the UK's premier destination for spectral black dogs, mischievous pixies, and ancient granite tors that stick out of the moor like giant stone knuckles. Plan your escapade ahead-these eerie jaunts fill up quicker than locals down pints in a snug countryside pub-and aim for dusk, when the twilight gently blurs the line between history and imagination (and conveniently, makes blurry photographic evidence of Dartmoor's ghostly inhabitants infinitely easier to justify). Bring waterproof footwear, a sensible jacket, and enough pocket money (£20-£30 per person typically covers the thrills and chills) to buy your skeptical self a local cider afterwards-just to steady your nerves. Because even if you don't believe that spectral hounds actually lurk the misty lanes, you'll leave Dartmoor with a shiver down your spine, stories of spooky encounters to embellish forever more, and a newfound respect for legends that stubbornly refuse to fade into the night.

Camping overnight on Dartmoor is the closest you'll get to willingly sleeping inside a Sherlock Holmes mystery-where swirling fog, ghostly tors, and the eerie cries of unseen creatures blend effortlessly into a gothic adventure worthy of Conan Doyle himself. Pack smart: bring layers (Dartmoor weather changes moods faster than an over-caffeinated barista), waterproof everything, and a flask of something suitably warming; you'll thank yourself when the dark, damp chill creeps around midnight. Aim for the golden hour before dusk to pitch your tent and stake your humble claim amongst the free-roaming ponies who'll look at you with a mixture of benign curiosity and mild contempt. Plan a few weeks ahead, budget modestly-after all, luxury here is an absence of another human soul-and remember, wild camping is legally tolerated in England uniquely here, courtesy of ancient common land rights, provided you stay respectful, stay discreet, and stay just one night in each spot. Even if you're less Bear Grylls and more bear-with-me, huddling beneath Dartmoor's infinite stars makes the minor sufferings worthwhile-at the very least for the priceless bragging rights earned from sleeping rough where Baskerville hounds once padded menacingly through the mist.