I’ll never forget the drive down to Bath – a proper faff from the M4, with satnav taking us on a detour through some cheeky country lanes that had us white-knuckling it past hedges taller than my car. We ended up in a queue behind a tractor for what felt like ages, me tutting and my other half munching crisps like it was a picnic. But as we finally trundled into the city, the anticipation bubbled up; Bath’s got that magic, doesn’t it? Those honey-coloured streets unfolding like a Jane Austen novel come to life.

Pulling up to the place, my first impressions were spot on – this charming apartment tucked into a historic Georgian townhouse, peaceful yet slap bang in the heart of Bath. William Johnstone named the street back at the end of the 18th century when he was busy shaping the Pulteney Estate’s world-famous architectural heritage. It’s the sort of spot that whispers “relax” before you’ve even unpacked.

We’d booked it for a long weekend, craving nothing more than lazy cottage days – and boy, did it deliver. No grand plans, just the joy of doing bugger all, properly slowing down. First morning, I cracked open the French windows to the garden, a sun-dappled haven with birdsong and the faint hum of the city beyond. Brewed a pot of tea, grabbed my battered paperback (some detective yarn I’d been saving), and flopped into a lounger. Hours vanished like that – page after page, with the odd doze when the sun warmed my toes. My partner pottered about, sketching wildflowers or sipping coffee, both of us grinning at how daft it felt to be so idle after our usual rush-about life.

Afternoons blurred into more of the same bliss. A gentle wander to the nearby Sydney Gardens for a mooch – just five minutes away, perfect for stretching the legs without committing to a hike. Back for lunch in the kitchen, whiling away time with cheese on toast and gossiping about nothing. Evenings? Cosy on the sofa, windows open to catch the breeze, reading by lamplight till eyelids drooped. One night, I caught myself staring out at the garden’s shadows, reflecting on how I’d forgotten what it’s like to just *be*. No emails pinging, no deadlines – just me, a good book, and the soft rustle of leaves. Felt a proper luxury, that quiet contentment.

Bath’s temptations were right there if we fancied a whim – a potter to Pulteney Bridge for an ice cream, or lounging by the canal watching narrowboats chug past. But mostly, we stayed put, savouring the garden’s peace, the apartment’s nooks that begged for lingering. It was hilarious really; I’d planned to “explore properly,” but ended up loving the laziness most. Who knew unwinding could be the highlight? If you’re after a reset, this is your spot – pure, unhurried joy.