I’ll never forget the drive to Bath for our three-day jaunt to Netherfield Lodge – a proper family getaway, just me, the missus, and our two lads, aged eight and ten. We’d piled into the car from Bristol, only about 20 miles up the A4, chattering about Roman baths and cream teas, when disaster struck in the form of a rogue seagull. Right at the Keynsham lights, the blighter dive-bombed our windscreen with what can only be described as a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. Cue panicked swerves, me yelling “Bloody hell!” and the kids in hysterics. We pulled over for an emergency wipe-down with baby wipes (always packed for such eventualities), laughing till our sides hurt. A minor mishap, but it set the tone: chaotic, joyful, and utterly us.

By early afternoon, we trundled into Bath, the city unfolding like a Georgian postcard – honeyed stone terraces hugging the hills, the odd spire poking through. Netherfield Lodge sits just on the edge, in a quiet spot near Widcombe, close enough to wander into the centre but far enough for that cosy rural escape. Spotting the lodge at the end of a leafy lane felt like stumbling on a secret. It’s a proper little stone cottage, all wonky charm with roses rambling up the walls and a pint-sized garden that screamed “put your feet up”. We parked on the gravel drive – crunch, crunch – and unloaded amid much bickering over who carried the crisps.

Stepping inside was pure magic. The door creaked open to a snug sitting room with a wood burner (unlit, but promising evenings to come), squashy sofas draped in throws, and a telly that the boys immediately commandeered for FIFA. Kitchen next door was a dream for lazy cooks like me: Aga humming away, stocked with tea towels and basics, plus a window overlooking the garden where birds flitted about. Up the creaky stairs, three bedrooms – ours with a super-king that swallowed us whole, and the lads sharing a bunk-bedded nook they declared “the best ever”. Tiny bathroom, mind, with a shower that took a moment to warm up, but who cares when there’s fluffy towels and views of Bath’s rolling greens?

First impressions? Blissful lodge life, laced with that gentle chaos we adore. We dumped bags and headed out for a mooch – a 15-minute stroll downhill to Widcombe Parade, grabbing pasties from the bakery that were still warm, flaky heaven. Sat on a bench by the canal, watching narrowboats chug past, the lads dunking fingers in the water despite my protests. “Don’t fall in, you muppets!” I chuckled, but secretly loving their wild energy. Back at the lodge by dusk, we cracked open fish and chips from the local chippy (proper cod, not that haddock nonsense), eaten picnic-style on the garden bench. The air was that perfect English evening crispness, with the city’s hum just audible.

As the sun dipped, painting the hills gold, I had a quiet moment on the porch swing, mug of tea in hand, watching the family squabble over the last chip. Here we were, in this pocket-sized haven, miles from the daily grind. It hit me – these simple bits, the laughter amid the mess, the unexpected gull guano – that’s what recharges the soul. No grand plans needed; just us, the lodge’s warmth, and Bath’s gentle welcome. Can’t wait to return for more of the same.