Saint Mary's

Stumbling through the winding lanes of Hugh Town toward Star Castle-a squat, stubbornly enduring 16th-century fortress hunched atop the Isles of Scilly-you can't help but ponder that this chunk of granite and ambition was built to repel Spanish Armadas, pirates, and even the occasional disgruntled Cornish fisherman. Early morning visits around 9 a.m. are best; you'll avoid the selfie-stick crowd and witness the sun slanting dramatically through the star-shaped walls as though history itself is posing for your Instagram feed. Reserve a spot a couple days ahead and fork over around £15, but arm yourself well-comfortable shoes (don't even think about sandals unless you're into stubbed toes), a wind-resistant jacket, and ample curiosity. Inside, expect tales of Elizabethan paranoia, shipwrecks, and well-preserved battlements that whisper stories of centuries past. Sure, touring ancient fortifications may sound like a yawn-inducing grade-school field trip, but trust me, there's a certain thrill and irreverent charm in traipsing about a place originally designed for cannon fire while idly wondering how the original guards dealt with seagulls aiming bomb drops of their own. If nothing else, you'll leave Star Castle with bragging rights-after all, not everyone can say they've stormed (or, more accurately, politely visited) a fortress that once terrified invading armadas and now mainly intimidates trespassing rabbits.

Tresco Abbey Garden is precisely the kind of place you'd think doesn't-nay, shouldn't-exist in Britain: a lush, unapologetically subtropical explosion of palms, proteas, and giant succulents lounging comfortably on an isle floating improbably off the Cornish coast. Here, smugly shielded by a convenient quirk of geography, the garden thrives in its own audacious microclimate, oblivious to the dreary drizzle and bone-chilling dampness plaguing the rest of Britain. Visit mid-morning before the crowds descend, planning at least a week or two in advance during peak summer-because, trust me, paradise doesn't do spontaneity well. Bring around £20 per adult to cover entry, a decent hat (looking Indiana Jones-adjacent is optional, but encouraged), sturdy footwear, and an appetite for botanical absurdity. Tresco Abbey Garden isn't merely lush; it's an unapologetic middle finger to England's grey stereotype, offering a horticultural fever dream that'll have your Instagram followers convinced you've accidentally teleported to Madeira. And frankly, visiting is worth it solely for the privilege of later recounting the tale with a raised eyebrow and a casually dropped, "Oh yes, palm trees-in England. Rather charmingly preposterous, wouldn't you agree?"

Gig rowing on the Isles isn't so much an activity as it is a delightful clash between nautical history and vaguely organized chaos. Picture six rowers, a slender wooden boat, and captains barking commands like salty drill sergeants, all pushing furiously across crystal waters once ruled by pirates and smugglers. Exclusive to the Isles of Scilly, Pilot Gig racing once had a serious purpose-fastest crew wins the job of guiding incoming merchant ships safely to shore-but today it's mostly about fierce local rivalries, sunburn, and post-race pints of ale. Embrace early morning starts, when the water's mirror-like calm hasn't yet been trampled by tourists, and consider booking ahead during high season (word travels quickly on islands with populations barely nudging four digits). Budget around £25 if you're brave enough to jump aboard for a session-or just show up with a flask of tea, binoculars, and enjoy the spectacle from shore. Either way, it's worth every blister and sunburned nose just for the joy of telling your friends you've raced a boat whose very design comes from outrunning pirates.

Birdwatching at Annet Island isn't just about binoculars and bucket hats-it's an expedition into avian anarchy, where puffins swagger like drunken sailors and shearwaters shriek like caffeinated toddlers past bedtime. Sitting off the Isles of Scilly, this uninhabited patch of maritime charm has stubbornly resisted coffee chains, Wi-Fi hotspots, and, thankfully, selfie sticks, leaving it gloriously untouched and wildly alive. Historically a haven for shipwrecked mariners and renegade smugglers, today Annet belongs entirely to the feathered hordes who treat human visitors with the aloof disdain of Michelin-starred chefs-you're tolerated, barely, and entirely at their whim. Aim to embark early in the day (dawn's golden hour is your best bet) to catch maximum avian drama; book a boat from nearby St. Agnes at least two weeks ahead, as birdwatchers descend on Annet with the punctual intensity usually reserved for Black Friday sales. Bring sturdy boots, waterproof gear, patience, and snacks-especially if you're planning an all-day spectacle-and budget about £50 for transportation and provisions. Even if you're hopeless at differentiating kittiwakes from cormorants, it's worth braving the island just for the surreal comedy of watching pristine professionals reduced to hushed whispers and frantic scribbling whenever a rare gull struts past. At worst, you'll return with a newfound respect for seabirds' refusal to be bothered by your bucket list, and at best, you'll leave with a fantastic tale of confronting nature at its most delightfully irreverent.

There are few places left in Britain where pitching a tent doesn't mean negotiating with a chorus line of midges and the distant hum of traffic. Bryher Island, however, feels blissfully immune to reality, a windswept sliver of pastoral defiance-like Mother Nature had an exceptionally good day and said, "Fine, you can have this one." Camping on Bryher isn't so much roughing it as gentle defiance against civilization: your soundtrack is the rhythmic crashing of waves, punctuated by the occasional cry of a seagull who frankly doesn't care about your existential musings. Pitch up early-just after sunrise if ambition strikes or at least by mid-afternoon-to snag that perfect coastal view; spots fill up quickly enough that spontaneity here gets you a stern glance from the island's veteran campers. Budget around £15-£25 per night for the privilege of using a patch of grass wisely positioned at the edge of the known world, and don't skimp on essentials: bring waterproof gear (because the island's mood swings put teenage rebellion to shame), snacks, fresh water, and most importantly-wine or whiskey to sip smugly as the sun drifts into the Atlantic. Sure, getting there takes forethought and ferries; sure, you'll question your sanity around 2 AM when your sleeping mat deflates and something scuttles ominously in the bank of vegetation nearby. But believe me, it's worth it-not just for the tranquility, not just for the silhouette view of Cromwell's Castle hazily looming on Tresco, but for the small thrill of bragging later that you willingly went to sea on a tiny boat, slept inches above rocks, and lived to embellish the tale.