Most visitors photograph the green bridge with the vintage trams and move on. The trick is to come when the Danube runs low and look down, where the wreckage of the original span is still lying in the river.

Some towns get statues of founders; Perstorp got its vinegar bottle, red cap and label included. The best detail is the 1994 unveiling, where a TV chef explained how to squeeze an egg into a bottle using vinegar, which is the most on-brand speech ever given.

Heritage rules usually save whole buildings; here they saved only the front, which leaves an ornate stage-set of arches and shells bolted onto an ordinary street. Fitting, somehow, for a shop that made funerary monuments.

San Marino is mostly visited for its towers and its stamps, but just outside the walls is a rock niche that people prayed at from the Iron Age to late antiquity. The finds are the moving part: little terracotta arms and fingers left as offerings. A quiet stop on the way between the towers.

Only Portland would give a floor covering a public memorial. The 1987 teal carpet with its runway-map pattern turned into a civic mascot, found on socks, beer labels and the occasional tattoo, and when it was retired the city decided it deserved a send-off. A pilgrimage site for anyone who has photographed their shoes in an airport.

Just up the road from Concord and Lexington sits a flag that predates the Stars and Stripes and is still in one piece. Crimson silk damask, an armoured arm reaching out of a cloud with a sword, and a Latin motto with no room for compromise. Its exact age is still argued over, which only adds to the charm.

Drenthe's hunebedden are the Netherlands' answer to anyone who thinks the country is all polders and bicycles. D27 is the largest of them, older than Stonehenge, topped by a capstone of roughly twenty tonnes, and an easy walk from the Hunebedcentrum. A good excuse for a day trip out of Amsterdam.

A Jordaan side street, a room full of self-playing pianos and a library of punched paper rolls: music stored as holes, which is practically a storage format. Volunteers run it, and the tours are by people who love the machines. Bonus history about who once ran a roll factory in the neighbourhood.