I’ll never forget the drive to Bath for my three-day jaunt to Hartfield Lodge – a proper little mishap right at the start when I took a wrong turn off the A4 and ended up circling some cheeky roundabout three times, swearing at the satnav like it was my ex. Still, by mid-afternoon, I’d pulled up outside this cosy stone cottage tucked away in a quiet corner of Bath, just a short stroll from the city centre. Hartfield Lodge looked every bit the picture of a Georgian gem – ivy-clinging walls, a pitched slate roof, and a front door that practically begged for a cuppa and slippers. I was knackered from the drive, but the first glimpse had me grinning like a kid at a sweet shop.

Dumping my bags in the snug living room – all exposed beams and a wood-burner that screamed “cosy nights in” – I laced up my boots for a wander. Bath’s one of those places where you can’t not walk; it’s built for it, with those honeyed streets winding uphill like they’re daring you. First impressions? Blimey, the weather was on its best behaviour – bright blue skies, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves. I headed straight out for a loop around the back lanes behind the lodge, past blooming cottage gardens bursting with roses and lavender. It felt like stepping into a postcard, the air crisp with that unmistakable English freshness. Ten minutes in, I hit the path up to Prior Park Landscape Garden, just a mile or so away. That Palladian Bridge? Absolute stunner, framed by manicured lawns rolling down to the valley. I plonked myself on a bench, scoffing a flapjack from my rucksack, feeling like the luckiest sod alive.

But oh, British weather – you sly fox. By evening, as I ambled back via Sydney Gardens (another cracking spot, with its aviary and winding paths perfect for a leg-stretch), the clouds rolled in like uninvited guests. A light drizzle started, turning the pavements glossy and the air all misty. No bother, I thought, ducking into a nearby café for a builder’s tea and a bacon butty. First impressions of Hartfield Lodge deepened then – it was my rainy-day haven, with its wellies by the door (cheers to the hosts for that touch) and a kitchen stocked with local Brewers Fayre goodies. I lit the fire, watched the rain patter on the windows, and chuckled at how I’d packed shorts like an optimist.

Day two dawned with a vengeance from the skies. Grey as a bad mood, it bucketed down from the off, scuppering my grand plan for a full hike up to Kelston Round Hill. Instead, it forced a rethink – brilliant, innit? I layered up in waterproofs and set off on a shorter ramble through the allotments and meadows fringing Bathwick, where the rain turned everything emerald and alive. Puddles everywhere, splashing my jeans, but there’s something magic about a wet English walk; the scents sharpen, the world shrinks to birdsong and dripping leaves. I looped back through the lodge’s neighbourhood, past those posh mews houses, emerging sodden but chuffed at the lodge’s towel pile waiting like a hug.

That evening, as the clouds lifted for a sneaky sunset, I reflected gently over a GandT on the patio – me, the fair-weather hiker turned all-seasons plodder. Hartfield Lodge had flipped my script; those weather whims weren’t setbacks, they were the adventure. No epic treks needed when your base is this inviting, nudging you out whatever the forecast. By day three’s brighter start, I was hooked on Bath’s walking rhythm – mishaps, mizzle and all. What a first impression; I’m already plotting a return.