I’ll never forget the drive down to Bath – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, only for the sat-nav to chuck us into a massive traffic snarl-up just outside the city. Turned out some cheeky roadworks had everyone in a right pickle, and there I was, drumming my fingers on the wheel, wondering if we’d ever make it. But as we finally trundled over Pulteney Bridge, the golden glow of the honey-coloured buildings hit us like a warm hug, and all that frustration melted away. Bath does that to you, doesn’t it? Proper magic.

We pulled up to this cracking two-storey townhouse apartment right on Great Pulteney Street – quaint as you like, with that classic Georgian vibe that screams holiday bliss. Stepping inside, it felt like home from the off: cosy, well-kitted-out, and perfectly placed for wandering. I could already picture lazy mornings with coffee in hand, plotting our days.

First port of call was a mooch down to the Roman Baths, less than half a mile away. That’s where we met Reg, the ticket chap with a moustache like a broom and stories for days. “You lot from up north?” he asked, eyeing our accents. Turned out he’d been born and bred in Bath, and over the next ten minutes, he regaled us with tales of his nan who swore the baths cured her rheumatism back in the war. “Don’t tell the missus, but I sneak a sip of the water meself – keeps the pipes clear!” he winked. We were in stitches, and it set the tone: Bath’s full of these quirky locals who make you feel like you’ve known them forever.

Next day, we hit the Thermae Bath Spa – pure indulgence, that. Soaking in the rooftop pool, I got chatting to Fiona, a retired teacher from round the corner. She was there with her spaniel (they allow dogs in the gardens, bless), and she launched into how Bath Abbey’s bells used to wake her every Sunday as a kid. “Still do, mind – keeps me honest!” With her dry wit and tips on the best cream tea spots, she had us hooked. We ended up following her advice to a café by the Abbey, where the scone was fluffier than a cloud.

A wander to the Holburne Museum brought us face-to-face with eccentric old Bert, the volunteer guide. He’s got this wild shock of white hair and a passion for the place that’s infectious. “See this painting? My great-uncle posed for it – or so I tell the tourists,” he chuckled, spinning yarns about Georgian scandals that had the kids wide-eyed. We spent longer there than planned, just lapping up his patter.

Even the pubs delivered characters. At a little boozer near the city centre, landlady Marge – all peroxide curls and no-nonsense charm – pulled us pints and shared how she once chased off a pickpocket with her rolling pin. “Bath folk look after their own,” she said, clinking glasses. Proper heart-warming.

Reflecting on it now, sat back home with a cuppa, that trip wasn’t just about the sights – though they’re stunning – it was the people. They turned a simple getaway into something special, reminding me to chat more with strangers. If you’re after a family jaunt packed with laughs and local lore, this spot’s a gem. Can’t wait to go back and catch up with the gang.