It is truth universally acknowledged that a single gentleman in possession of a good appetite must be in want of a person to share it with.
I paraphrase and twist the words of Jane Austen to suit my purpose, but what I mean is that 20 years ago, I, too, was wooed in and by the city of Bath. The handsome, grizzled photographer “gentleman” was eager to show off his home city of creamy neoclassical crescents, parades and promenades that sit high on the ridge of the Mendips Hills, and had booked a table at the famous Pump Room.
Once upon a time, the glitterati and literati of 18th-century London—see: artist Thomas Gainsborough, satirists Swift and Henry Fielding, as well as Jane Austen—gathered to take the waters here, to see and be seen. Beau Nash, the famous dandy of the era and unofficial master of ceremonies in this then most fashionable spa town in England, was fond of posting a list of rules that included dress codes (no wearing of hats or aprons for women, no boots or spurs for men) in the Assembly Rooms. Would he have blanched at the scene, 200 years later — less Bridgerton and more bridge and tunnel, perhaps: the shuffling queues of blue-rinse dames, anoraks and backpackers waiting to drink the water, which can still be drawn from the Baroque fountain beside the Roman baths?
The Pump Room pianist did his best to elevate the space, trying his hand at Handel, but when the salad arrived, undressed and tossed with indigestible chunks of raw onion and a rogue Brazil nut or two, my new beau and I succumbed to our first row. Did this spell the demise of a beautiful association with Bath, or nip a blossoming relationship in the bud? Dear reader, let me not keep you in suspense: I married him. A winter’s ring ceremony in Bath was preceded by a wedding breakfast nearby, against the glorious Georgian backdrop of Babington House (a Soho House property). Later came a honeymoon weekend in the even more filmic surroundings of Lucknam Park, a grande dame of a Palladian villa hidden away in a 550-acre park.
Since the millennium, a multi million-pound investment in the antiquated Victorian South Western railway system has brought London — now just over an hour away by train — within commuter reach, and Bath is no longer just the stunning but touristic provincial backwater that I first clapped eyes on. There are now seductive hotels with just the right combination of intimate, grand and camp that haven’t been Disneyfied (nor exploited the Jane Austen connection to death). And while Bath still doesn’t do cutting-edge, its formerly fusty boarding houses have been dragged into the new century, where they stand as charming guest houses with some surprisingly good restaurants that, happily, now serve their salads dressed. Even the Pump Room has upped its game, offering an agreeable dose of nostalgia and retro-chic, which is a balm in our unsettled times. There is the prawn cocktail special, for instance, or scones at afternoon tea, a ritual concocted and popularized by the Duchess of Bedford, another doyenne of the 1800s Bath scene. And behind the flawlessly made-up façade Bath presents to the world, I have gotten to know its refreshingly real, free-spirited and bohemian mindset, discovering an exhilarating city of blink-and-you-miss-it treasure troves and hidden watering holes.
Sitting atop an amphitheater of hills and woodlands, this compact urban community keeps one foot solidly in the countryside. Its architectural beauties and pedestrianized cobbled streets give suddenly onto river, parkland and open pasture, and everywhere is best explored on foot. Central Bath is made for browsing, strolling and grazing. Take your time, keep your eyes open for period details such as the cast-iron street candle-snuffers and masonic symbols and, above all, allow yourself to get lost. This way you are sure to uncover a hidden junk shop or artisanal sole trader in a dead-end alleyway — though damned if you can ever find it again.
Where To Wander, Window-shop and Graze
Amble along Walcot Street to get a sense of the city’s thriving creative spirit. A high stone bulwark along the western length of the street holds back 18th-century patrician Bath from the grittier working-class district with a grip like a dowager’s corset. Pick up some snuff boxes at the Saturday flea market, where once cattle were traded, or, if you’re lucky, a 1970s silk scarf at the Yellow Shop. Ever since London’s Notting Hill became colonized by oligarchs and lost its bohemian soul, many of its independent design and concept stores like Graham and Green have migrated here. For lunch, pause at Landrace Bakery, which serves a variation on the legendary Bath bun and specializes in naturally leavened breads from stoneground U.K. grains. Alternatively, there is the Hobbity Bell Inn, a pub and beloved institution with live music and a taste of alternative Bath.
Between the Circus and Royal Crescent, the pedestrianized Margarets Buildings and its outlets are more refined, as suits its patrician setting. Inexpensive first editions are still a feature at the antiquarian’s favorite, Bath Old Books, which packs more books into cubby holes than you would possibly imagine. On the same street, Alexandra May does a great display of contemporary costume jewelry from all around the world. A relative newcomer is 8 Holland Street (another Notting Hill émigré) for interiors and design in the fascinating premises of the original Bath Oliver biscuit shop, with a calendar of events and talks promised as soon as lockdown ends.
