Thinking back, I’m pretty sure I’ve never once sprung out of bed and thought, “You know what would complete my life today? A trip to Bath”. Not once. Not even accidentally.

Don’t get me wrong, the City of Bath, to give it it’s official title is lovely. It’s got history, architecture, culture, all the things that responsible adults pretend to care about. But it’s just never been on my personal “must‑wander‑around‑aimlessly” list. Honestly, had it not been for the fact we were attending the Ferocious Dog gig at the Komedia the night before, we’d have never given it a second thought.

For some utterly baffling reason however, I’d convinced myself that at some point in my life I’d graced Bath City FC’s Twerton Park football ground with my presence, cheering on my beloved Walsall FC, but in reality, the cold, hard stats prove that Walsall FC have never dropped out of the Football League since joining in 1892 as Walsall Town Swifts; Bath City FC have never played in the Football League since forming in 1889 as Bath AFC; and, just to really hammer home how unhinged my brain really can be at times, the two clubs have never actually met in a competitive match. Not once. Not even in a friendly, or some weird cup match that nobody remembers. Although I can’t help but feel that there may be one or two football boffins out there somewhere, ready to pounce, and prove both myself and the stats completely wrong.

So where exactly did this memory come from? No idea. A dream maybe? A parallel universe? A particularly vivid episode of Match of the Day? Whatever the source, one thing is absolutely certain: it never happened.

I hauled myself upright from our hotel bed at about 9am following what can only be described as a rubbish night’s sleep, the kind where you wake up feeling like you’ve been trampled by livestock. Sonia was already sat up watching TV. My legs and back were in full mutiny, screaming in agony after standing through not one but two Ferocious Dog gigs, in two different cities, within twenty‑four hours. Add to that the “8‑minute walk” from the car to the hotel the day before which, thanks to hills, roadworks, and my general lack of mobility and athleticism, somehow transformed into a 25‑minute expedition.

Of course, it’s entirely my own stupid fault. First, because I’m too stubborn to book disabled accessible seating, the area that venues like to hide away in a dark, forgotten corner at the back, somewhere between the toilets and the fire escape, miles from the stage, the fun, and any sign of human civilisation, like some sort of 17th‑century plague ward. And second, because I foolishly trusted Google Maps’ optimistic belief that I could carry a heavy bag uphill, navigate a maze of roadworks, dodge uneven surfaces, and do all this while using a walking stick, at the same pace as a healthy 20 year-old, completely off his tits on Red Bull. Spoiler alert: I can’t.

Thankfully though, Sonia had remembered to bring Paracetamol and Ibuprofen in order to help with my aches and pains and crumbling bones. Unfortunately, Daz, – bless him, hadn’t remembered to pick them up out of the glove box of the car the day before which left us with just two choices… I could walk back to the car in agony in order to get them, or I could do Sonia’s head in, continuously complaining about how much I hurt until we could purchase more pain relief… I chose the latter.

Still, there was always the promise of a nice cup of tea to start the day off on the right foot… exactly what the doctor ordered. Only on this occasion, the doctor must have been moonlighting as a wartime rations officer, because the hotel in their infinite, galaxy‑sized wisdom, had decided that two people, sharing a room for two nights, would require no more than two teabags. Two whole teabags. A whole teabag each. A ceremonial offering that we’d already used within minutes of arriving the day before. Because that’s what we British do best when entering a hotel room: drop our bags, locate the kettle, make a cup of tea, then quietly sip away whilst judging and ridiculing the décor.

We left the hotel a little before 10am and shuffled next door to The Old Post Office Wetherspoons for breakfast, fully aware that time was tight, as we had pre‑booked tickets for the Roman Baths at 11:15, because nothing says “cultural enrichment” like a bunch of old bricks and a bit of stagnant water.

Despite this, and despite the fact we’re both currently on strict diets however, we both ordered the large full English and that cup of tea we’d been fantasising about for almost an hour. Healthier options were available of course. Fruit. Porridge. Probably something involving avocado. But let’s be honest: Who on earth goes to Wetherspoons just for a bowl of sadness and seeds?

Besides, I’d already derailed my diet the night before by ordering the all‑day brunch, which is basically a full English with added chips, so at that point, the damage was already done. Why stop a train once it’s already ploughed through the station? We were there to enjoy ourselves, and we had the whole day ahead of us. So a light sprinkling of dust on dried bread was never going to cut it.

Usually, my Wetherspoons breakfast would be accompanied by a pint of something cold, bubbly, and alcoholic, but I was adamant that this day was going to be different. This day was going to be wholesome. Civilised. A nice, relaxing, alcohol‑free wander around the city, fuelled only by the intoxicating beauty of it’s Georgian architecture and whatever spiritual enlightenment comes from staring at beige coloured stone for several hours.

And of course, there was also the small matter of the hotel’s catastrophic teabag shortage. I wasn’t going anywhere without a cup of tea first. If I was going to be sober, I at least needed caffeine.

We arrived at the Roman Baths by taxi with ten minutes to spare, because we’re not stupid and I had absolutely no intention of re-enacting yesterday’s “8‑minute walk” fiasco. In fact, I’ve pretty much decided never to trust Google Maps again, not unless I’m in a desperate need to locate the nearest Greggs anyway.

Luckily for us, the Roman Baths are right next door to Bath Abbey, another stunning attraction we’d also pre‑booked tickets for, because sometimes, usually against all odds, we do manage to behave like sensible adults who plan things. Not all the time obviously, but just enough to convince ourselves that we are actually capable of doing it.

The queues for the Baths were horrifically long. Not ideal when you’ve got limited mobility, standing issues, and absolutely no fast‑track accessibility option in sight. Honestly, if the Romans had still been around, I reckon they’d have implemented some sort of chariot‑based disability shuttle service by now. But nothing, it was case of just stand there and hope you don’t fall over.

At 11:15, our official, pre‑booked, “you will enter at this time” slot, the staff were still desperately trying to funnel the 10:45 and 11:00 visitors through the doors. Eventually, having to shut down the cash‑paying, non‑pre‑booked queue altogether, much to the disappointment of the poor souls who’d been patiently waiting, blissfully unaware that the universe had other plans for them that day.

What they did have thankfully, was an abundance of benches, glorious, life‑saving benches, so I decided to hobble over and park my backside while Sonia bravely held the line. The plan was simple: she’d queue, I’d sit, then I’d heroically rejoin her when she neared the front, like some sort of mobility‑challenged ninja. In all honesty, I still hadn’t had any pain relief by this point, so I suspect Sonia was just grateful for a brief but well deserved break from my constant soundtrack of moaning, groaning, and dramatic sighing.

Despite my original lack of enthusiasm about visiting the Baths, it actually turned out to be a really nice place once we finally got inside. Not exactly “beautiful” as someone on Facebook had boldly claimed, unless of course your idea of beauty involves piles of ancient bricks and a large pool of green, stagnant water that looks like it’s plotting to give you Cholera, Typhoid, and Dysentery simultaneously. Still, it was quite educational and interesting… in a “please don’t drink the water” kind of way.

What amazed us the most however, was the number of people who, despite multiple warning signs politely screaming “DO NOT TOUCH THE WATER” (or words to that effect), still felt compelled to dip their hands in it, as if they’d never seen water before. If natural selection had a gift shop, this was most definitely it.

On the bright side, it gave us the perfect excuse to sit and wait, hoping that someone would fall in. They didn’t of course. Not even a wobble, and after a while we simply got bored of waiting and carried on admiring more old bricks, because apparently, that’s what cultures all about. And who knows? The place might look good when it’s finished.

It was during our wander around the Roman Baths, specifically while navigating the upper terrace, that Sonia (and I repeat for the record, SONIA) uttered the immortal words straight from that iconic 1980s Fosters Lager advert: “I can see the pub from here”, as she pointed down a narrow side street where a pub sign was sticking out like a beacon of hope for the weary, the thirsty, and the easily led astray.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I desperately needed a comfortable sit‑down after battling the Romans’ “rustic” pavements. Sure, they could build long, straight roads across entire empires, but they never were all that clever when it came to the finishing surface.

Meanwhile, Sonia was craving her beloved hot chocolate, and yes, technically it was a pub, a rather nice pub in fact called The Crystal Palace, but that didn’t mean I had to drink alcohol did it?. Of course not. I could absolutely sit there with a nice mug of hot chocolate topped with cream and marshmallows, just like Sonia, while continuing our wholesome, relaxing, alcohol‑free tour of the city.

Don’t be ridiculous. Not when I’ve got draught Guinness staring at me from the side of the bar I couldn’t… although I did only have two pints, which has to be some sort of record for me, and it was for medicinal purposes… honest.

As we left the pub, we were greeted by the oldest tree in Bath, though obviously not personally. It’s a Giant Plane Tree, planted as a sapling way back in 1793 at a time when people still thought leeches were a solid medical plan. Apparently, it’s one of the oldest remaining architecturally planted trees in the world.

It towers high above Abbey Green, this gorgeous little courtyard full of charming shops, cafés, and luxurious apartments that probably cost more than my entire existence. It’s so enormous, so impossible to miss, that you’d think even I would have noticed it on the way into the pub, but no. Not a chance. I walked right past a 230‑year‑old botanical skyscraper without even a flicker of awareness. Obviously, I had other things on my mind.

Opposite the pub stood the oldest sweet shop in Bath, the oldest bakery in Bath, and just a little further down, the oldest house in Bath. All three of which were being admired in awe by what I can only describe as quite possibly the oldest tourists in Bath… and that’s not including us.

Compared to them, and shall we say at the tender age of our early 50s?, we were practically infants. Mere whipper‑snappers. Sprightly young things, still in our prime, just with the occasional creaking noise if we stand up too quickly.

One sight I did genuinely want to see while we were in Bath was the famous Georgian masterpiece, Pulteney Bridge, which sits proudly above the Pulteney Weir on the River Avon that slices right through the city centre like it owns the place. Built in 1769 by renowned architect Robert Adam, this Grade I listed beauty is one of only four bridges in the entire world which has shops running along the entire span on both sides. When it opened in 1770, it was considered revolutionary, and even today is still hailed as one of the most beautiful and romantic bridges on the planet.

Me being me however, and considering the amount of pain I was in, I didn’t exactly fancy the trek all the way to Pulteney Bridge from where we were standing. My legs had already filed several formal complaints, and my back was threatening a complete walk-out. So instead, we took a gentle, dignity‑preserving stroll to the North Parade road bridge instead, and used my phone’s zoom to get a few photos, and honestly? I was perfectly happy with that. Why walk all the way to a famous landmark when you can admire it from a safe distance like a lazy Victorian aristocrat? Zooms exists for a reason you know?

It was almost time for us to make our way to the Abbey, mostly so we’d have enough time to get back to the hotel, get changed, and pretend to be respectable human beings for our evening meal. But first, Holland and Barratt to replace my forgotten painkillers, then one more pub. Not just for alcohol this time, but because I needed the toilet, and there was absolutely no way I could have survived the staircase situation in the previous establishment. Not with these knees.

In contrast to The Crystal Palace, Sleights Ale House was… let’s say rustic. More spit‑and‑sawdust than fine wine and table lamps. The kind of place people go when even Wetherspoons staff looks at them and says, “Sorry mate. Not today”. Still… Another cracking pint of Guinness.

Surely I could use the gents here, but nope! If you wanted the toilet in this place, you had to go back outside onto the street, down a steep set of concrete steps, and into what can only be described as a subterranean chamber of questionable safety. There was nothing for it. I’d just have to wait until we reached the Abbey.

Once we’d completed our short, legs‑plated stroll to the Abbey and shown our tickets, I immediately began scanning the place like a desperate meerkat looking for predators, except in my case, the predator was a full bladder and my prey a toilet, but nothing. Not a sign. Not even a suspiciously labelled door that might have read toilet if you squinted.

I had no choice but to sit down and hope my bladder would show mercy, while Sonia happily wandered off to examine every marble plaque, stone carving, and historical crumb the Abbey had to offer. She was in her element, reading about the approximately 7,000 souls buried beneath the Abbey floor, while I sat there trying not to join them.

She even found the plaque for one Mr William Siddons (1743–1808), son of a Walsall licensee, my hometown naturally, and husband to the famous Shakespearian actress Sarah Siddons (1755–1831), famed for her portrayal of Lady Macbeth, and said to have performed at The Assembly Rooms at the Dragon Hotel in Walsall during her illustrious career. Though there’s no actual documented evidence for this however, but it’s our story, and we’re absolutely sticking to it.

Meanwhile, I was sticking to my seat, praying for divine intervention in the form of indoor plumbing, despite not being religious in any way, shape, or form. Desperation will do that to a person. That’s when one of the Abbey’s Visitor Chaplains, Reverend Evelyn Lee‑Barber, approached me with the serene glow of someone who 100%, without a shadow of a doubt, absolutely did not need the toilet.

She handed me a palm cross, symbolising the branches laid before Jesus on Palm Sunday… apparently. A lovely gesture. Very spiritual. Very meaningful, but still I didn’t ask where the toilet was. Of course I didn’t. She was the Chaplain, not the cleaner. I wasn’t about to look her in the eye, clutching a holy symbol, and say, “Excuse me, Reverend, but where’s the loo? I’m desperate”.

The Abbey was calming and peaceful, a proper sanctuary of tranquillity and worship. And despite my complete lack of faith, religion, or even basic spiritual alignment, I could still appreciate its beauty and the importance it holds for those who do believe.

The Chaplain continued telling me all about the Abbey’s significance and architecture: why it’s known as the Lantern of the West thanks to its incredible 7‑parts‑stained‑glass‑to‑1‑part‑stone ratio, how the sunlight turns the whole interior into an explosion of colour, and which parts of the stunning ceiling were original versus the bits the Victorians copied like enthusiastic overachievers. Some may find things like this boring, border-line depressing even, but not me.

It was all genuinely fascinating… and, more importantly, it was successfully distracting me from my increasingly urgent desire to water that large white ceramic font, the one I was still yet to locate. At this point, the Abbey was looking more a test of endurance than it was a place of worship.

Before too long though, and crucially before it was too late, we managed to locate a Disabled Access Toilet in the Abbey’s Learning Centre, and armed only with my walking stick and Nimbus Card, just in case anyone asked, I was able to make the loo without a second to spare… relief at last. Maybe there is a God after all.

There are many more places in Bath we’d love to visit one day, far more than my legs, back, and general will to live could handle in a single trip. There’s Mary Shelley’s House of Frankenstein for instance, The Royal Crescent, the grand Circus, Pulteney Bridge (properly this time), The Holburne Museum, Jane Austen’s home, The Jane Austen Centre, Prior Park Landscape Garden, the Herschel Museum of Astronomy… basically an entire bucket list of culture we absolutely intend to see one day. A day when our joints stop sounding like a six year old has been let loose in a bubble wrap factory.

And of course, there’s Stonehenge, just an hour’s drive from Bath, with regular bus tours to and from what is possibly the most famous mystical stone circle on the planet. A place so ancient, so mysterious, so iconic… yet still somehow managing to look like someone lost a game of giant Jenga.

For now though, time was ticking on. The sun was starting to dip, the shops were closing their doors, and our bellies, having long since erased all memory of the mornings microwaved Wetherspoons breakfast offerings, were beginning to rumble like minor earthquakes. It was rapidly approaching food o’clock, and dangerously close to our evening table booking. So, we left the Abbey, ordered an Uber back to the hotel in order to freshen up before heading back out.

Our restaurant of choice for the evening was The Botanist, yes, that Botanist, the one immortalised on Channel 4’s reality TV dating show First Dates, where hopeful romantics sip cocktails under the watchful gaze of Fred Sirieix’s immaculate eyebrows. It sits inside the beautiful Octagon, a Grade II* listed former Chapel, which was designed by architect Timothy Lightholder, and built in 1767, but never actually consecrated because of only ever being a leasehold property. Because I guess nothing says ‘holy sanctuary’ like the presence of a landlord after his rent money.

In fact, sadly neither Fred nor Merlin were there to greet us, as filming had wrapped the previous weekend. And Jane Austen also failed to make an appearance, despite frequenting the Chapel whenever she visited the city, though in her defence, she’s been dead since 1817, so we decided to let her off this time.

Instead, we were welcomed by someone I can only describe as a hyperactive Cheshire cat who’d either had too much caffeine, too much sugar, or possibly both delivered intravenously. Bouncing around the place with the energy of a man who’d overdosed on way too many cans of Monster Ripper before his shift… lovely bloke, just in need of a sedative or two.

The restaurant itself was beautiful. Spacious. Comfortable, but surprisingly so quiet, you could practically hear your own thoughts echoing around the room… except for the human foghorn stationed behind the bar that is. This one staff member seemed to believe he was hosting his own late‑night talk show, complete with a live studio audience made up of his equally thunderous friends who were sat at the bar. It seemed that a subtle ambience was definitely not on the menu that night, and It was nowhere near as serene and romantic as they make out on the TV, but honestly, we really didn’t mind. The food was excellent, and worth every penny.

My hanging kebab came with a sweet chilli sauce that was so good, I’m pretty sure The Botanist is missing a major business opportunity by not selling the stuff by the litre. I’ve never tasted a sweet chilli sauce so good in my entire life, and I’d have definitely walked away with a dozen bottles at the very least.

The only downside however, was that it felt around minus 30 degrees inside, and neither of us had brought coats, because we’d foolishly assumed we were going to dinner, not embarking on an expedition to the Arctic Circle. It was so cold I’m fairly sure there was a full‑blown snowball fight happening on the balcony at one point, and possibly even a penguin waddling past, but I can neither confirm nor deny that fact.

I can honestly state, hand on heart, that we were genuinely excited to get back outside just to warm up, which really tells you everything you need to know. Even sitting here writing this, I think I’m still dithering now.

After polishing off our one and only cocktail of the evening and paying for our meal, we both agreed that an early night was not just desirable, It was medically necessary. We were up early the next morning for our trip back home, and neither of us are young enough any more to survive three late nights in a row. Are you mad? The crisp Bath air had clearly taken its toll on us, and we needed Zzzzz’s. So despite it only being 8:30pm, and despite us being on a short break away from the kids, a rarity in itself. We headed back to the warmth and safety of our hotel room, remembering to grab a handful of teabags and milk from the reception desk as we passed. We weren’t falling for that one again. Once bitten, twice Shy, and all that.

By 9pm, I was well-and-truly in the land of nods according to Sonia, while she just sat there watching TV, and I didn’t wake up until 8am the following morning. 11 hours sleep! That’s never been known. I don’t usually get that much sleep a week, let-alone in one night.

It was finally time to wish Bath a fond farewell, with a promise to return sometime in the not-to-distant future. It really is a beautiful place, and well worth a visit if ever you get the chance, and something I’d highly recommend.