I’ll never forget the drive down from Bristol that Friday afternoon – sat nav insisting we take some dodgy shortcut through the back lanes, only for us to end up in a queue behind a tractor trundling along at snail’s pace. Typical, I thought, as I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, but by the time we finally rolled into Bath’s Artisan Quarter, the anticipation had built up nicely. We were buzzing to just switch off, no grand plans, just proper holiday mode.

Pulling up to this charming two-bedroom apartment, converted from original wine cellars and tucked away in the heart of the vibrant Artisan Quarter, I was smitten straight away. Those unique vaulted ceilings gave it such a cosy, welcoming vibe, blending historic character with all the modern touches you need. Just a 10-minute wander from the city centre, yet it felt like our own little peaceful hideaway, with Hedgemead Park practically on the doorstep and Walcot Street’s quirky cafés and shops close enough if we fancied a potter about.

But honestly, the joy of the whole stay was doing next to nothing. We’d wake up late, brew a pot of tea in the sunlit kitchen, and flop into the garden – this lush, private spot that felt like it was made for lazy mornings. I’d grab my battered copy of a P.G. Wodehouse novel, stretch out on a lounger with a cuppa, and let the world go by. The other half would doze off with a podcast on, birds chirping overhead, and the faint hum of Bath life in the distance. No rush, no itinerary – just that glorious slow-down you crave after months of rushing about.

One afternoon, we did venture out for a gentle stroll to Hedgemead Park, sprawling out on the grass with sandwiches from a Walcot Street deli. Watching families picnic and dogs chase sticks, I had one of those quiet moments of self-reflection: when did life get so hectic? Here, with the sun filtering through the trees and not a deadline in sight, it felt like I’d hit the pause button. Back at the flat, we’d light the fairy lights in the garden as dusk fell, crack open a bottle of local Somerset cider, and chat about nothing much. Dinner was simple – cheese board from the nearby market, scoffed al fresco while reading more of my book.

Evenings blurred into reading marathons under those vaulted ceilings, curled up on the comfy sofa with blankets. I polished off two novels that week, something I haven’t done since school holidays. A cheeky laugh came when I tried ‘helping’ with the garden’s herb pots – managed to knock over a basil plant and spent 10 minutes faffing about replanting it, only for the cat from next door to have a sniff and wander off with a leaf in its mouth. Proper comedy gold.

Staying put like that, embracing the laziness, was pure bliss. No ticking off landmarks – the Roman Baths and Pulteney Bridge could wait for another trip. This was about recharging, one slow garden day at a time. Left feeling utterly refreshed, already plotting a return.