Liu Yang

I’ve always found that the best way to understand a place is to walk its streets without a plan. Last week, I found myself in Bath, a city that feels like it’s been plucked from a storybook. The first thing that struck me was how quiet it was—no honking cars, no rush hour chaos. Just the sound of footsteps on cobblestones and the occasional clatter of a horse-drawn carriage.

I wandered through the Roman Baths, where the water still flows as it has for centuries. There’s something humbling about standing in a place that’s seen so much history. The architecture is elegant, almost restrained, which makes the grandeur feel more real. It’s not flashy; it’s just… beautiful in a way that doesn’t shout for attention.

I had a cup of tea at a little café tucked away on a side street. The owner, a woman with silver hair and a warm smile, told me she’d lived there all her life. She spoke about the city with quiet pride, not in a boastful way, but as if it were a part of her. That kind of connection is rare, and it made me think about what makes a place feel like home.

In the evening, I sat by the Avon River, watching the light change. The city lights reflected on the water, and for a moment, it felt like time slowed down. I didn’t have a destination, just a feeling. And maybe that’s what travel is really about—not checking off places, but letting them leave a mark on you.