Torquay

Descending into the dark belly of Kents Cavern isn't just a guided tour-it's spelunking through humanity's greatest hits album, complete with Neanderthal neighbors and Ice Age wildlife cameos. Wedged comfortably in the genteel Wellswood neighborhood, this subterranean adventure feels deliciously incongruous-a bit like discovering Ozzy Osbourne sipping tea at a church bake sale. Aim for the first or last tour of the day-less crowded and just eerie enough to spark caveside existential musings-and plan at least a day ahead to snag your spot. Twenty quid or so should cover your subterranean voyage through 400 million years of geological gossip, and bring along a sweater (it's chilly underground), decent walking shoes, and a flashlight if you're suspicious of inadequate cave lighting (or suspicious of life in general). Sure, it's educational and historically significant, but more importantly, you'll leave boasting the priceless ability to slip into casual conversation: "Oh, that reminds me of the time I hung out in a cave older than Stonehenge..."

If you've ever dreamt of embodying Indiana Jones, minus the snakes and questionable archaeological ethics, River Dart Adventures is your chance. Nestled within Dartmoor's moody, windswept grandeur-where Sherlock Holmes once chased hellish hounds and countless hikers have questioned their life choices-this park delivers your fix of pulse-pounding escapism: zip wires slicing through dense greenery, climbing walls that redefine your grip-strength delusions, and watersports that ensure you will end the day damp, exhilarated, and unapologetically bedraggled. Pro tip: arrive early (around 9am) to beat weekend warriors and school-trip hordes, pack waterproof layers (the locals solemnly promise Dartmoor sunshine is a myth), and aim to book at least a week ahead, especially during holidays. Budget around £25 to £40 per head, plus extra for hot chocolate or perhaps a strong, reviving Devon cream tea afterward. Sure, dangling from a zip line above the rushing River Dart or kayaking inelegantly into chilly waters won't necessarily change your life-but it's something glorious to boast about at the pub later, preferably wrapped in a wool blanket, sipping cider, recounting your brush with gravity, madness, and mild hypothermia to anyone willing (or unwilling) to listen.

Climbing aboard the South Devon Railway in Buckfastleigh is like tumbling happily backward into the cozy, sepia-toned embrace of Britain circa 1935-only without rationing or air raids. Picture yourself aboard a chuffing steam locomotive, gently rattling past green fields and sheep as round and fluffy as marshmallows, while the River Dart glistens lazily alongside, utterly unconcerned with the frantic pace of modern life. Aim for an early morning or late afternoon departure-golden hour adds an extra dollop of charm, and fewer tourists mean more elbow-room for your obligatory Instagram nostalgia shots and ample space for smugly enjoying your vintage biscuits and flask of hot tea brought from home. Book a week or so ahead during summer weekends, but off-season spontaneity might just land you an empty compartment to indulge in those Agatha Christie fantasies. Budget around £20 per adult ticket and set aside two leisurely hours-long enough to relax, but short enough to avoid excessively awkward conversations with overly eager train enthusiasts. And don't forget your tweed hat-totally unnecessary, but thoroughly recommended. Even if historical locomotion doesn't usually steam your kettle, there's something irresistible about being propelled by pure coal-fired Victorian ambition, clanking gloriously through the Devon countryside. You'll leave soot-streaked, grinning, and carrying a story far better than your mate's latest budget airline fiasco.

Stepping aboard the Oddicombe Cliff Railway feels like hopping into an Edwardian-era elevator that's slightly drunk on nostalgia-and gravity. Built in 1926 to spare genteel holidaymakers the indignity of breaking a sweat on Cornish hillsides, this funicular still faithfully clanks and creaks its way down the rugged cliffs at Babbacombe, offering views of a bay so glitteringly beautiful it'll temporarily distract you from the nagging suspicion that mechanical upkeep might still rely on charmingly outdated theories of engineering. For optimal enjoyment, catch a morning ride to beat the crowds of leisurely pensioners and overly enthusiastic travel bloggers; about £3 and five minutes of gentle suspense will land you comfortably (fingers crossed) on the sands of Oddicombe Beach. Pack sunglasses, curiosity, and perhaps a small flask of something bracing to settle your nerves on the descent. Sure, it's quaint, slightly kitsch, and unabashedly British, but when else will you be able to casually drop into conversation that you've entrust your life to Victorian-era engineering simply for a swim, a pint, and a good anecdote?

Dartmoor after dark, my friends, isn't merely nighttime-it's a full-on existential reboot beneath a cosmic cathedral. Long before Sherlock Holmes chased ghost dogs through these mysterious moors, ancient Britons stood here, probably wondering if they needed a bigger stone circle or just stronger mead. Today, Dartmoor remains one of Britain's last bastions of genuine dark skies, mercifully free from the neon glare of cities and Instagram influencers waving ring-lights. Pack a sturdy tent, a warm sleeping bag, and, trust me on this one, extra socks-because nothing ruins a spiritual encounter with the universe faster than chilly toes. Arrive late afternoon, stake your claim near Hound Tor or Haytor Rocks, and watch as fiery sunset gives way to a celestial disco of stars, planets, and occasionally confused sheep. Planning a month ahead ensures the clearest skies and best camping spots, and a modest £50-£100 budget covers gear rental and enough snacks to bribe the ponies into friendship. Bring a good star chart, binoculars, and probably a flask of something warming-stargazing is thirsty work. Even if your astronomical knowledge extends only as far as correctly identifying Orion's belt (congrats!), the real payoff is feeling delightfully humbled by the sheer immensity of space, the quirky stories you'll recount afterwards, and the slightly smug satisfaction of having survived a night on the moor without becoming the star of your own gothic thriller.

If your idea of English wine involves politely choking back lukewarm fizz at a drizzly wedding reception, allow Sharpham Vineyard to relieve you of that sad misconception. Perched smugly above the meandering River Dart in lush South Devon countryside, Sharpham is precisely the sort of improbably lovely spot where you sip wine and pretend, for a moment, that you've stumbled into Tuscany via Totnes. Founded in the early 80s-a time when British wine was viewed roughly on par with Marmite-flavored toothpaste-Sharpham stubbornly pressed on, now crafting vintages that regularly collect shiny medals and earnest oohs from critics. Go midday on a weekday, if possible, booking a week or two ahead (Brits have a keen nose for a tipple, after all). For £20-£30, sample multiple glasses, paired with local cheeses robust enough to wrestle your palate to the ground. Bring sunglasses, sturdy shoes for a vineyard stroll, and a willingness to pretend you understand phrases like "notes of hedgerow." Even if discerning elderflower from gooseberry seems as improbable as sunshine in Cornwall, it's worth every penny-and embarrassment-if only so you can casually drop into future dinner conversations, "When I was wine tasting in Devon..."