I’ll never forget the drive to Bath for our three-day family getaway – a proper British road trip comedy of errors. We’d piled into the car from Bristol, kids in the back with crisps and iPads, me navigating via a dodgy phone signal, and my partner at the wheel. About ten miles out, I insisted we stop at a services for “just a quick coffee”. Big mistake. The queue was endless, and by the time we emerged, triumphant with our overpriced lattes, we’d spilled half of them down the front seat. Cue soggy trousers and a chorus of “Mum, you’ve ruined everything!” from the little ones. Laughable now, but at the time, it felt like the holiday was cursed before it began.

Finally rolling into Bath, the city’s honey-coloured Georgian streets worked their magic, easing the tension. We skirted the centre – no need to dive into the tourist scrum just yet – and headed to Bell Tent 3, tucked away in a peaceful spot on the edge of town. It’s one of those glamping setups that promises lodge life without the full-on camping faff: a sturdy bell tent plonked in a lush garden, close enough to hear Bath’s gentle hum but far enough for that countryside whisper. Spot on for a relaxed family break, especially with our lot aged six and nine, who’d been banging on about “tent adventures” for weeks.

Pulling up, the first impression hit like a warm hug. The tent squatted invitingly under a canopy of trees, fairy lights already twinkling in the late afternoon sun – proper enchanting, like something out of a Enid Blyton book. We tumbled out, still a bit sticky from the coffee debacle, and the host greeted us with a cheery wave and a basket of local scones and clotted cream. “Welcome to your home for the next few days,” she said, handing over the keys to the en-suite loo and kitchenette pod nearby. No faffy check-in forms; just pure, easy vibes.

Inside Bell Tent 3, it was cosier than I’d imagined. A massive double bed draped in plush quilts dominated the space, with camp beds for the kids shoved in the corners, already piled high with sleeping bags. A wood-burning stove sat ready for chilly evenings, and there were rugs, lanterns, and even a cheeky hammock slung outside the flap. The kids went feral immediately – diving onto the beds, whooping about “our castle!” – while I flopped down, inhaling that fresh canvas-and-pine scent. Simple pleasures, innit? No telly blaring, no Wi-Fi nagging at you; just the rustle of leaves and distant church bells.

First impressions? Blissfully chaotic in the best way. We unpacked amid minor lodge-life pandemonium: one sock vanished into the ether, the youngest smeared jam on the tent wall (quick wipe, no harm done), and my partner nearly tripped over the camping chairs we’d dragged in for “extra seating”. Light-hearted stuff that had us in stitches. Stepping out for a wander, we were minutes from the Kennet and Avon Canal – perfect for a gentle stroll. The kids skipped along the towpath, spotting ducks and narrowboats chugging by, while we munched those scones on a bench, watching the water glint in the golden light. Bath’s magic seeped in without us even trying: the faint outline of the Royal Crescent in the distance, but no hordes of selfie-sticks here.

That first evening, as the sun dipped, we lit the stove and cracked open a bottle of Somerset cider from the host’s recommendations. Sat cross-legged on rugs, toasting marshmallows on sticks (kids’ eyes like saucers), I had a quiet moment of self-reflection. Life’s been a whirlwind lately – work, school runs, the usual grind. Here, in this tent’s soft glow, with laughter bouncing off the canvas, I realised it’s these unpolished bits that recharge you most. No grand plans needed; just family, a bit of chaos, and Bath’s understated charm wrapping around us like a favourite jumper. Couldn’t have asked for a better start.