The Beach Is Always Free . . .

Or you can save your money and traipse along the Bermuda Railway Trail, a hiking/biking path that slices across the island. From 1931 to 1948, a train rumbled along the route; in the 1980s, the tracks were dismantled and the trail was born. No motor vehicles are allowed and, with deep ruts and other obstacles commonplace, I'm not so sure I'd even try to bike it.

But walking it isn't a problem, which is how my 30-minute sprint to the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse (less than a mile from Clairfont) turned into a two-hour, four-mile marathon to Somerset Bridge, the world's smallest drawbridge. Along the way, islanders tended their gardens as I skirted their yards, young Bermudans played outside bungalows the color of freshly dyed Easter eggs and sailboats skipped along on crystalline bays.

Occasionally, the trail would dip along a busy road, where the screaming yeeeeeeeeeeee of the island's ubiquitous mopeds would drag me back to reality. Then it was off into the woods, or through the garden, or along the causeway. At the drawbridge I hopped a bus -- at a stop that was literally a pole in the wall; one false move and I would have been de-toed by traffic -- for the return to Gibbs Hill and a sweltering ascent up 185 steps.

Another day, I conducted a circle tour of the island. For $30 an hour, cab drivers will do the same thing for you, stopping at overlooks, historic sights and anything else you care to see. That's not necessary when you have a transit pass, bottled water and a fistful of free guides and maps.

After a half-dozen bus rides, a stop at the tourist-trappy Royal Naval Dockyards, a ferry ride along the island's beautiful northern coast, lunch at the fabled Swizzle Inn (where the national drink was invented), a quick swing through Hamilton for souvenirs and a $1.50 tour of the Bermuda Perfumery, my head was swimming. But my heart belonged to old St. George.

The pretty little harbor town, a World Heritage Site dating from 1609, has a lot going for it, including beautiful St. Peter's Church (rebuilt in 1712), some nice shops and the classic White Horse Pub. But it was the Dunking of the Wench, a waterside reenactment of a colonial custom, that was generating all the buzz while I was there.

About 150 people were encamped around the "dunking bench" -- a lever with a seat on one end and handles on the other -- when I foolishly made my way to the front. The tricorn-bedecked Town Crier came over and told me he needed my help. He picked four other assistants as well -- all of them septuagenarians (or older) from a cruise ship that had just docked.

When the wailing wench made her appearance (minutes earlier I'd seen her smoking a cigarette and talking on a cell phone), she was ordered to sit on the bench. Her crime: gossiping and public drunkenness. Dunking ensued.

Unfortunately, my co-dunkers were either uninterested or incapable of getting her out of the drink. For 10 sweat-soaked minutes and about a half-dozen dunks, I threw my entire body onto the lever to get the poor woman above sea level as my compatriots dawdled.

At least it was free.