I’ll never forget the drive down from Bristol that crisp autumn morning – sat nav insisting we were nearly there, then bam, we took a wrong turn onto some narrow lane that had me convinced we’d end up in a cow field. Turned out it was just Bath’s cheeky one-way system playing tricks, but after a quick U-turn and a shared eye-roll with my partner, we finally rolled up to this gem of an apartment tucked into the redeveloped St Catherine’s Hospital area. From the off, it felt like we’d struck gold: a sleek one-bedroom spot overlooking a tranquil courtyard garden, just a stone’s throw from the Roman Baths and peeking behind the Thermae Spa. Modern kitchen, comfy living space, posh bathroom – proper home from home, without the tourist tat.

First impressions? Magic. We dumped the bags, cracked open a cuppa, and gazed out at that peaceful green space, the city buzz feeling miles away despite being slap bang in the centre. No time wasted on the obvious spots; we were itching to wander, and Bath’s got this knack for rewarding the aimless rambler. Our first accidental find came that very afternoon – instead of heading straight for the Abbey crowds, we nipped down a side street off Westgate Buildings and stumbled into the Guildhall, this understated 18th-century beauty with its grand plasterwork ceiling. Empty save for a couple of locals chatting, it was like peeking into Bath’s quieter soul. We lingered, imagining the old market traders haggling below.

Next day, full of that holiday optimism, we set off “towards the river” (or so we thought) and proper got lost in the honeycomb of lanes behind the Royal Crescent. What a result! Emerged into Queen Square, but not the manicured park you might expect – no, we found this hidden nook by the bandstand where an elderly gent was feeding pigeons, and a tiny second-hand bookshop spilling out onto the pavement. Snagged a dog-eared copy of a local history for a quid; pure serendipity. Lunch was another fluke: weaving through Pulteney Weir’s back alleys, we ducked into a no-frills café on North Parade Passage serving the best cheese scone I’ve ever had, washed down with builder’s tea. No queues, no hype – just proper grub.

Evening brought the best yet. Trying to loop back to our courtyard haven, we veered off into Walcot Street by mistake. Hidden gem alert: a wee artisan bakery that stays open late, with cakes that could make you weep. Grabbed eccles cakes and staggered home, bellies full, to our apartment’s cosy glow. Sat there reflecting over a glass of wine – isn’t it funny how the best bits of a trip aren’t the Instagram must-dos, but these little detours that remind you to slow down? Bath’s like that mate who knows all the secret pubs; get lost, and it unfolds its charm.

By the end of our stay, we’d mapped a mental list of these off-radar treasures – the tucked-away art studio on Chapel Row, the serene garden square near Laura Place – all found by ditching the map. If you’re after a base that lets you play explorer without the hassle, this spot’s your ticket. Proper restorative, that was. Can’t wait to go back and lose myself all over again.