I’d just about had it with the sat-nav’s cheeky demands by the time I pulled up to Bell Tent 4 on the outskirts of Bath. Picture this: a three-day jaunt from London, me belting out some dodgy karaoke to The Clash to stay awake, when the bloody thing decides to route me through every narrow lane in Somerset. Cue the insignificant mishap – a rogue pheasant struts out like it owns the B-road, I slam the brakes, and my thermos of builder’s tea goes flying, soaking my lap. “Brilliant,” I mutter, mopping up with a service station napkin. But honestly, that little drama was the perfect icebreaker for what turned out to be a weekend of stumbling upon Bath’s proper hidden gems, all because I ditched the maps and embraced getting gloriously lost.

Arriving at Bell Tent 4 felt like tumbling into a cosy dream straight out of a Enid Blyton book – if she’d done glamping. Tucked away in a quiet field just a hop from the city centre, it’s this lush bell tent with a proper double bed piled high with quilts, fairy lights twinkling like fireflies, and a wood-burning stove that promised toasty nights. The hosts had left fresh milk, croissants, and a cheeky note saying “Make yourself at home, explorer!” First impressions? Pure bliss. I dumped my bags, cracked open a cold cider from the mini-fridge, and flopped onto the outdoor deckchair, gazing at the rolling hills. No traffic hum, just birdsong and the faint chime of distant church bells. It was the ideal launchpad for accidental adventures – close enough to wander into Bath but far enough to feel like a secret escape.

Keen to shake off the drive, I set off on foot towards the city, no itinerary in sight. That’s when the magic of getting lost kicked in. Instead of beelining for the Roman Baths (been there, queued there), I veered left down a leafy path off London Road that Google Maps hadn’t bothered with. Blimey, what a find – Prior Park Landscape Garden, this off-the-beaten-track stunner with its honey-stone bridge straight out of a fairy tale. I wandered the meadows alone, crunching autumn leaves, spotting a heron by the lake. No crowds, just me pondering how daft it is to always chase the Instagram spots when these quiet corners are where the soul recharges. A gentle nudge to myself: slow down, you numpty, life’s not a checklist.

Emboldened, I looped back through lesser-trod lanes towards Bathwick, stumbling upon the delights of Perrymead. There’s this unassuming footpath by the allotments that leads to a wildflower meadow with benches overlooking the Avon Valley – a total fluke discovery after I took a “wrong” turn dodging a muddy puddle. Sat there with a flask of tea (lesson learned, thermos secured), I watched cyclists whizz by and felt that rare holiday peace. Light humour in the air too – a cheeky squirrel eyed my scone like it was auditioning for theft of the century, forcing me into a comedy standoff. “Oi, mate, it’s mine!” I laughed, tossing it a crumb.

Back at the tent by dusk, first impressions deepened into full-on love. The canvas glowed under the sunset, and firing up the stove turned it into a hygge haven. Sipping wine, I reflected on the day’s serendipity – how embracing the unknown unearthed Bath’s best-kept secrets, like those hidden gardens and secret paths within a stone’s throw. No grand plans needed; just a bit of wanderlust and a willingness to get lost. If you’re after that authentic Bath vibe without the tourist scrum, Bell Tent 4 is your ticket. Can’t wait for round two – pheasant permitting.