I’ll never forget the drive down to Bath – we’d set off from Bristol full of beans, windows down, singing along to some dodgy 90s playlist. Then, about halfway, disaster struck: a massive pothole sent us veering into a layby with a flat tyre. Me, faffing about with the spare while the kids whinged from the back seat. Half an hour later, we were back on the road, but it put paid to any grand arrival plans. Still, as we trundled into the city centre, the anticipation bubbled up – those honey-coloured streets, the promise of a proper break. Spotting the townhouse, my heart did a little flip. What a belter: a stunning, spacious, light-filled family spot, right in the thick of it all. Elegant Georgian vibes, kitted out for groups like ours, with space to breathe and every comfort you could want. First impressions? Spot on.

We’d booked it precisely because we fancied doing sod all – no manic itineraries, just lazy days soaking up the calm. And oh, it delivered. The first morning, I wandered out to the garden with a cuppa, the sun filtering through the leaves, and plonked myself on a lounger. The kids vanished into the house’s nooks – board games in the big living area, sprawling out on the sofas – while I cracked open my book. Haven’t devoured a novel like that in ages; time just stretched out, no rush, no clocks ticking.

Afternoons blurred into the same blissful rhythm. A gentle stroll to the local bakery for fresh scones (clotted cream optional, but come on, it’s practically mandatory), then back for more garden lounging. I’d nap under the parasol, half-listening to the faint hum of Bath life beyond the walls – cyclists whizzing by, church bells pealing lazily. One day, I caught myself staring at a butterfly on the lavender, mesmerised, and had a proper moment: when did I last switch off like this? Work’s been a whirlwind, emails pinging at all hours, and here I was, utterly content doing nothing but breathing it all in. The house wrapped around us like a hug – those high ceilings letting light flood every corner, the kitchen big enough for midnight toast raids without waking anyone.

Evenings were pure joy: barbecues in the garden, fairy lights twinkling as we demolished cheese toasties and swapped daft stories. No theatres or tours for us; we wandered the nearby lanes once, popped into a cosy café for tea and cake, but mostly? We stayed put, savouring the slowness. The townhouse felt like our own little world, steps from the buzz of the city yet worlds away from the hustle.

Packing up on the last day, I felt that familiar tug – reluctant, but recharged. Bath’s magic isn’t just the postcard views; it’s these pockets of peace, especially in a place like this. If you’re after a holiday where the highlight is a really good book and zero agenda, hunt down a gem like ours. We’ll be back for more loafing about, no question.