I’ll never forget the drive down from Bristol – we’d splashed out on this little holiday flat in Bath, and I was buzzing with that proper anticipation, you know, imagining lazy mornings with a brew overlooking the city. But typical me, I took a wrong turn somewhere near the A4, ended up in a queue of traffic behind a tractor trundling along like it owned the road. Half an hour late, sweating a bit, we finally pulled up, and blimey, first impressions? Spot on. This charming one-bedroom spot, right in the thick of it, steps from the Roman Baths and Thermae Spa, felt like a proper treat – modern vibes with that historic Bath charm seeping in. The king-size bed screamed ‘crash out in luxury’, and the en-suite with its rain shower and fancy toiletries? I was sold before I’d even unpacked.

First things first, though – stomach rumbling after the faff. We wandered out to the nearby farmers’ market on Green Park Station, which was heaving with stalls groaning under local cheeses, artisan breads, and the most vibrant veg you’ve ever seen. I grabbed some Somerset Brie, a loaf of sourdough still warm from the oven, and a punnet of strawberries that tasted like summer. Back at the flat, I fancied myself as a bit of a chef – raided the well-stocked kitchen for olive oil and herbs, and attempted a posh cheese platter with a side of charcuterie from the deli round the corner. It wasn’t exactly MasterChef, mind – the Brie melted a tad too enthusiastically over the hob, leaving me flapping tea towels like a headless chicken. Laughing our socks off, we scoffed it on the balcony anyway, with a cheeky bottle of local cider. Proper holiday win.

Evenings were all about the pubs, Bath’s got them in spades. That first night, we hit The Raven down by the river – tucked away but lively, with their Sunday roasts that could convert a vegan. Mine was a massive plate of slow-cooked beef, Yorkshire puds the size of saucers, and gravy so rich it was criminal. Washed down with a pint of Butcombe ale, it was heaven. Next day, lunch at Sally Lunn’s, because how can you not? Those historic buns, split and buttered, topped with sweet cinnamon or savoury cheese – I went for both, naturally, and regretted nothing except the waistband tightness.

One morning, I tried cooking breakfast proper – bacon from the market, eggs poached in that fancy shower-water pressure (kidding, the hob did fine). It turned into a greasy scramble, but with fresh coffee and views of the honey-stone streets, it felt gourmet. Self-reflection hit me then, sat there with my cuppa: I’m always rushing about at home, grabbing rubbish takeaways, but here? Slowing down for proper food, faffing in a kitchen that wasn’t mine – it’s the simple stuff that recharges you, innit?

We capped it with fish and chips from the Seafoods stall at the market – crispy, hot, wrapped in paper, eaten on a bench by Pulteney Bridge. Pub crawl after to The Old Duke for live jazz and pork pies that were pure joy. Left feeling stuffed, happy, and already plotting the next trip. Bath’s food scene in a flat like that? Absolute dream.