Liu Yang

It's funny how a city can feel like an old friend after just a few days. I found myself wandering the streets of Bath, not because I had a plan, but because the quiet rhythm of the place made it easy to lose track of time. The buildings, all in that warm, golden stone, seem to hum with history, and you can almost hear the whispers of the Romans who first built here.

I sat on a bench by the river for a while, watching people walk by—some with coffee, some with dogs, some just looking at the water. It’s strange how a simple scene can feel so peaceful. I didn’t go to any big attractions, just wandered where the path took me. A little shop with books and tea, a park where kids played and old men sat on benches, a café where the owner remembered your name after the second visit.

There’s something about Bath that makes you slow down. Not in a boring way, but in a way that makes you notice things—the way light hits the spires, the sound of footsteps on cobblestones, the scent of lavender in the air. It’s not loud or flashy, but it has a quiet charm that lingers. I don’t know if I’ll come back, but I think I’ll remember it.