What I learnt on a grand tour of the least loved cities in the British Isles

'From a young age I've always done two things – barked up the wrong tree and backed the underdog.'
That's the first line of a new book that attempts to heap praise on 12 of the least popular cities in the UK and Ireland, and argue that anywhere – like anyone – can be interesting and enjoyable if given half the chance. (Even Reading.)
The book is a love letter to the wrong direction, a half-baked investigation into what we value and why, and a small and imperfect answer to over-tourism.
It won't win any beauty prizes, but its heart is in the right place, and the destinations it features are indisputably deserving of the readers' attention. The book is called Shitty Breaks: A Celebration of Unsung Cities, and I wrote it.
When I resolved to set off in search of overlooked metrópoles, I didn't just follow a hunch. Instead, I contacted tourist boards and got hold of a league table that showed me where people were willingly going for a weekend away.
When I saw Edinburgh near the summit, Leeds in mid-table and Coventry flirting with danger just above the drop zone, I flipped the thing upside down and went from there.
Each of the cities I visited proved nourishing and diverting and full of surprises. Grayson Perry popped up in Chelmsford. The Venerable Bede made a cameo in Sunderland.
David Hockney was everywhere in Bradford. Epic history reared its head in Preston (in the form of two almighty battles), while Limerick delivered Georgian streets, the best Guinness in Ireland, and a volume of 'craic' that I'm still coming to terms with.
The spirit of the book is akin to the spirit of an article I wrote for this newspaper two years ago, for which I visited some of England's least popular tourist attractions, including a camel farm, an old doss-house, and a folly in Somerset.
I enjoyed every one of those unlikely outings, and the experience was a useful reminder that deviating from the hotspots can be a variously fruitful endeavour.
One of the biggest fruits issued by my city-break odyssey was the history I encountered. In Preston it was an activist called Edith who burnt down the cottage of a soap magnate from Bolton.
In Chelmsford it was the impact of an Italian immigrant called Guglielmo Marconi who gave the world radio when he opened the world's first wireless factory at Chelmsford.
While in Dunfermline it was the story of Andrew Carnegie, who became the richest man in the world before spending his final years trying to give away every penny he had, a course of behaviour that still gives his descendants nightmares.
Another dividend issued by my travels came in the form of constructions. The bus station in Preston is unthinkably large and gives every impression that it's about to take off (which I suppose is appropriate for a transport hub).
The old Express & Star building in Wolverhampton – where Boris Johnson did work experience as a precocious seven-year-old – is an Art Deco whopper straight out of Chicago.
And the Transporter Bridge in Newport is about as delightful as an eyesore can be.
My jaunts in the wrong direction also provided plenty of atypical foodstuffs. It was orange chips in Wolves, butter pie in Preston, and jellied eels in Chelmsford.
It was the pink slice in Sunderland, and also a questionable substance by the name of pease pudding (which I can't in good faith recommend).
Finally, in Dunfermline, it was a pie filled with haggis, black pudding and square sausage rondels that wouldn't look out of place in an episode of Grand Designs.
Another thing my unlikely getaways offered in abundance was straight-up diversion. In Chelmsford it was an innings of cricket and a trip to a vineyard.
In Newport it was track-cycling and all the Roman remains. In Milton Keynes it was indoor skydiving and a tour of Bletchley Park.
And in Wolves it was the Pop Art at its gallery, the panto at The Grand, and a session at the racecourse, where I bet on a horse called Probable that duly came last.
For me, it's people that make a place tick. I'm not talking about the likes of JB Priestley and the Venerable Bede, or Ryan Reynolds and the witchfinder general, but rather the everyday characters who add so much to any adventure.
Like the girl in Wrexham who grabbed me by the scruff of the boxers during a session of karaoke and made me do a duet with her cousin.
Or the guy in Newry who caught me photographing his cottage and instead of telling me off invited me in to watch the tennis and talk about love. Or the paramedic in Wolves who I overheard complaining that he only got tipped a tenner for providing life-saving CPR. Separately, such brief encounters can seem of piddling significance, but taken together they constitute a reason to roam.
We live in an overly signposted and algorithmic world, wherein a handful of destinations are getting the lion's share of visitors. From what I can tell, those destinations are starting to creak and complain under the weight of their renown (the worst pizza I've ever had was in Venice, for example), meaning there's perhaps been no better time to save yourself a fortune, dodge the madding crowd, give Lisbon the cold shoulder, and go on a flipping s----- break.
My three favourite s----- cities in the British Isles
Limerick
The former Viking stronghold is like a mini-Dublin, only with better Guinness and a bigger castle. Local legends include Terry Wogan, a lady called Eleanor who runs a tea emporium called Cahill's, and the enigmatic polymath called Blindboy who operates with a plastic bag on his head and is Ireland's answer to Stephen Fry (sort of).
The pub is a way of life in Limerick, and I enjoyed that way of life at Dolan's to begin with and then afterwards at The Locke, each of the pair adding far too much grist to my mill. There's Canteen for small plates and Rift for your coffee, and I stayed at No.1 Pery Square, which is an elegant setup in the Georgian part of town.
Sunderland
Sunderland is a former shipbuilding heavyweight and the best city in the North East. As well as its long, sandy beach, there's The Empire for shows, The Fire Station for gigs, Pop Recs for poetry and stand-up and unbelievable focaccia, and Silksworth for skiing (yep, skiing). Consider North and Mexico 70 for top-notch tucker, the Penshaw Monument for a gorgeous folly on a hill, and I'm told that Hairy Biker Si King's new joint Propa does a very good pie. Make no mistake, Sunderland is going places.
Dunfermline
By my reckoning, Dunfermline has more history per square metre than Edinburgh. Robert the Bruce, Andrew Carnegie, Saint Margaret – the city is veritably teeming with heritage.
I went water-skiing, hover-crafting, and saw The Pars come from behind to beat mighty Inverness. I caught a gig at The Monarch, ate handsomely at Jack 'O' Bryans, discovered the work of Sandy Moffat at Fire Station Creative, and fell for a café called Wynd.
I loved the peacocks that bowl around town, strutting between buildings hewn from a handsome grey sandstone. For accommodation, Garvock House Hotel is a decent indie option.

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