I finally made it to Bath after a bit of a faff on the train from London—some prat had left their bike on the platform, blocking the door, and we all had to shuffle like sardines for ten minutes. Laughable really, but by the time I hopped off at Bath Spa station, I was starving and ready for my three-day glamping getaway at Bell Tent 2. It's this cosy bell tent tucked away in a quiet spot just outside the city centre, perfect for a solo wanderer like me wanting to pretend I'm a bit more rustic than I am.

The host met me at the nearby pickup point in their car—cheeky five-minute drive through those winding Somerset lanes—and as we pulled up, the tent was right there, all canvas curves and fairy lights strung around a private wooden deck. First impressions? Bloody inviting. Inside, it's surprisingly plush: a proper double bed piled with quilts, a little gas stove, fairy lights twinkling like it's Christmas, and a cool en-suite shower pod that looks like it belongs in a posh festival. No roughing it here; it's glamping done right, with a fire pit for evenings and that fresh countryside air wafting in. But let's be honest, my mind was straight on food. I'd packed light, figuring Bath's food scene would sort me out.

We'd barely unpacked when hunger hit hard, so I wandered the short stroll into town—it's dead central for all the good stuff. First stop: the farmers' market on Green Park Station, buzzing on a Saturday morning. Stalls groaning with local cheeses, artisan breads, and piles of Somerset cider apples. I grabbed a wedge of tangy Bath Blue cheese, some crusty sourdough from a baker with a beard longer than my patience, and a punnet of plump strawberries that tasted like summer. Back at the tent, my "cooking attempt" kicked off: I fired up the gas hob for a makeshift ploughman's. Cheese on bread, a dollop of chutney from the welcome hamper (nice touch, that), and a flask of tea. It was messy—crumbs everywhere, nearly set the tea towel alight faffing with the flame—but blimey, it hit the spot sat on that deck, watching the birds.

Lunch proper called for The Scallop Shell on Monmouth Street, a no-frills chippy that's a Bath institution. I went for the classic: haddock and chips, mushy peas on the side, all wrapped in paper that steamed up my glasses. Sat on a bench by Pulteney Bridge, munching away as the river Avon gurgled below. The batter was crisp as a fresh £20 note, and those peas? Proper mushy, just how Mum makes 'em. Light humour in the queue when the bloke ahead ordered "small cod" and got a whopper—enough to feed a family. Made me chuckle; sometimes you just wing it with the portions.

Afternoon tea was next, because Bath. Sally Lunn's Historic Eating House is a must—those massive buns are legendary. I snaffled a Bath Bun with clotted cream and strawberry jam, towering like a mini mountain. Sweet, doughy heaven, though I did feel a pang of self-reflection mid-bite: here I am, 35 and still getting excited over buns like a kid at a fête. Maybe it's a reminder to savour the simple joys more, eh? Less scrolling, more munching.

Evening pub crawl started at The Raven on Queen Square—cosy as a hug, with a roaring fire and their famous Bath Ales. I nursed a pint of Golden, then demolished a pie: proper steak and ale, pastry flaky enough to make you weep. Back at the tent for a nightcap by the fire pit, I attempted "glamping gourmet"—sausages from the market grilled over flames, charred just right with a bit of black pudding. Singed my fingers twice, but worth it, washed down with local cider from the offy.

First day in, and Bell Tent 2 had me hooked—not just the digs, but how it nudged me into Bath's food heart. Markets, pubs, chip shops: it's all about grazing like a local, tent as your base camp. Can't wait for day two's feasts.