Liu Yang

The moment I stepped into the heart of Bath, there was a quiet kind of magic in the air. The city didn’t shout its beauty—it whispered it through the curved lines of its Roman Baths, the soft glow of its Georgian architecture, and the way the sun filtered through the trees on the Royal Crescent. It felt like a place where time moved just a little slower, as if the past had settled comfortably into the present.

I wandered along the narrow streets, passing tucked-away bookshops and cozy cafés where the scent of freshly ground coffee mingled with the crisp autumn breeze. There was something comforting about the way the buildings seemed to lean into each other, their facades worn but proud, telling stories of centuries gone by.

I sat on a bench by the Avon, watching the water ripple under the bridge, and thought about how easy it is to feel small in a place that’s so steeped in history. But there was also a sense of belonging, as though the city had been waiting for me to arrive, just for a little while. I didn’t need to rush anywhere. I just needed to be there.