Liu Yang

The first thing that struck me about Bath was the way the light fell on the buildings—soft, golden, almost like it had been painted by someone who knew how to love a place. It wasn’t just the architecture that made it special, though. There was a quietness to the city, a kind of calm that felt earned rather than imposed. People moved with a certain grace, as if they’d long since stopped rushing and started living.

I wandered through the Roman Baths, not sure what I expected but certainly not the sense of history that clung to the air. The water still runs, just as it has for centuries, and there’s something humbling about standing where so many others have stood before you. I sat on the edge of the pool, watching the reflections ripple, and thought about how time isn’t always about moving forward. Sometimes it’s about holding on.

The streets are narrow, the shops cozy, and the people friendly in a way that doesn’t feel forced. I had a cup of tea in a little café that smelled like cinnamon and old books. The owner didn’t ask where I was from, just handed me a scone with a smile. That kind of warmth is rare, and it stayed with me longer than the tea.

Bath isn’t loud or flashy. It doesn’t need to be. It’s a city that knows its story and tells it gently, letting you find your own meaning in the spaces between the stones. I left feeling a little lighter, like I’d been reminded of something I’d forgotten about the beauty of slowing down.