Brighton is South England's fun city and the destination for students, bohemians, and blue-collar Londoners looking to go "on holiday." In 1840, a train connected the city to London, making the beach accessible to the masses for the first time. Since then, Brighton has become "London by the Sea." Whether wind, rain, or shine, it's where people come for a good time — and a fine toffee apple. And though the town has grown a little shabby, Brighton still knows how to crank out the fun.

The Royal Pavilion, once the holiday residence of King George IV, is one of Brighton's most eye-catching landmarks. And a visit here comes with a little gossip. The decadent and trendsetting king was well-known for his scandalous "secret" marriage to Catholic widow Mrs. Fitzherbert. He loved to vacation with her here by the sea and host glamorous dinner parties. Along with Mrs. Fitzherbert, music was one of his passions. In the music room, the king's own band serenaded guests under Chinese-inspired decor. The king's other passion: food. The table in the banquet room is set for the dessert course. Picture England's elite nibbling crumpets under the one-ton chandelier, with its dragons exhaling light through lotus-shaped shades.

I’ve had one caramel apple in the last decade. I ate it in Blackpool, leaning on a railing surveying the resort’s vast but mostly empty beach. Below me I studied a family spread out on a big blanket. It was cold. The sky was gray. They were bundled up but thoroughly on the beach and on vacation.

Blackpool, where many English people dream of retiring, is a wonderland of candy floss (that’s British for cotton candy), cheap fish ’n chips, gambling salons, and schmaltzy variety shows.

The tide is out in London, and in the midst of all the urban intensity, I’m beachcombing. Like kids on a scavenger hunt, David Tucker and I pick through the pebbles. I find a fragile, chalky white tube and hand it to David, who explains it’s no big deal...just the stem of a 19th-century clay pipe. “Back then, when tobacco was sold with disposable one-use pipes, used pipes were routinely tossed into the river,” he says, dropping it to the ground like one of those Victorian smokers. Thinking, “Charles Dickens may have sucked on this,” I pick it up again. Within minutes, I have half a dozen pipe stems in my pocket.

I love it when guides talk about history as if reminiscing while beachcombing their neighborhoods for obscure shards of their distant past. On this bright, brisk morning, David — who runs London Walks — is beachcombing right under the London Bridge.

Two hundred and fifty years ago, Bath was the Hollywood of Britain. Today, this former trendsetter of Georgian England invites you to take a 90-minute train ride from London and sample its aristocratic charms.

The entire city, built of the creamy limestone called "Bath stone," beams in its cover-girl complexion. Proud locals remind visitors that the town is routinely banned from the Britain in Bloom contest to give other towns a chance to win.

Shaking off my umbrella as I walked up to my B&B, I reviewed the events of my day. Bath, just 90 minutes or so west of London by train, is one of the most touristy towns in Britain. Even so, I was pleased that my time was filled with vivid, untouristy memories.

I climbed the stairs up my room, exhausted after a long day. When I blew my nose, I noticed a spray of red dirt on the Kleenex — and I remembered the snuff. 

It was the final day of a two-month trip to Europe. I was in London, and with all of my work behind me, I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted. So I decided to test my free London audio tours in a citywide blitz spanning two neighborhoods, one church, and two museums. It ended up being a very entertaining and relatively cheap day, proving that you don’t have to spend a lot of money to have a fulfilling experience in this pricey city.

In the morning, I bought a one-day off-peak subway and bus pass (a great deal at about $12) and caught the Tube from my hotel in South Kensington to Westminster. Time management was key: My last stop, the British Library, closed at 6 p.m., but my off-peak transit pass wouldn’t let me start until 9:30 a.m.