I’ll never forget the drive to Bath for our three-day jaunt—me behind the wheel of our trusty old Fiesta, my mate Dave navigating with a sat-nav that decided to throw a right wobbly just past Bristol. “Recalculating,” it droned for the umpteenth time, as we ended up looping round a cheeky one-way system in some nondescript suburb. Minor faff, really, but by the time we trundled into Netherfield Watersedge Lodge on the edge of Bath, I was starving and ready to ditch the car keys for good. Tucked right by the water’s edge—think gentle canal vibes with ducks quacking hello—this gorgeous little lodge felt like a proper hug after the road rage.

First impressions? Blimey, it was love at first sight. The place is a cosy stone cottage straight out of a Jane Austen daydream, with those classic sash windows overlooking the water and a teeny garden perfect for a GandT at dusk. We’d booked it for the peace and quiet, but honestly, the real star was the kitchen—fully kitted out with everything you’d need to rustle up a feast. No chain hotel nonsense here; this was proper home-from-home territory, and with Bath’s food scene on our doorstep, we were geared up for some serious grazing.

We dumped the bags and legged it straight to the nearby farmers’ market in Bath’s Green Park Station—five minutes’ stroll, if that. It’s a riot of colours and smells every weekend, stalls groaning under local cheeses, artisan breads, and the freshest veg you could imagine. I nabbed a wedge of Somerset Brie that was practically still mooing, some plump tomatoes, and a bundle of herbs that smelled like summer in a field. Dave went mad for the pork pies—proper handmade ones with flaky pastry that shattered on the first bite. £20 lighter, we staggered back to the lodge, arms laden, plotting our first culinary assault.

Cooking in that kitchen was a dream, though I’ll admit to a gentle cock-up on night one. I fancied myself as a Jamie Oliver, firing up the Aga-style oven for a veggie roast—those market tomatoes halved, drizzled in olive oil from the pantry stash, chucked in with new potatoes and a cheeky bit of Bath Blue cheese melting over the top. Dave handled the sausages from a local butcher stall we’d spotted en route (proper herby bangers, none of your supermarket rubbish). But I overseasoned the lot—went heavy on the rosemary, didn’t I? Tasted like we’d raided a Christmas tree farm. We laughed it off with a couple of local ciders from the fridge (the lodge had a welcome bottle of Bath Ales’ Gem), washing it down while watching barges chug past the window. Self-reflection moment: I’m no cordon bleu chef, but there’s something dead satisfying about faffing about in your own little watery nook, even if the grub’s a tad piney.

Next morning, first impressions still buzzing, we wandered into town for brekkie at the Pump Room—couldn’t resist the full English with a side of history. Crispy bacon, black pudding from a Somerset farm, and eggs poached to perfection, all while sipping on that famous Bath spa water (tastes like rusty pennies, but it’s tradition). Refuelled, we hit a couple of pubs within easy walking distance. The Star Inn, right by the canal, does a cracking ploughman’s—chunky cheddar, pickle sharp enough to wake the dead, and fresh-baked bread that mops up the lot. We nursed pints of Butcombe ale in their beer garden, feet dangling near the water, plotting lunch.

Lunch was back at the lodge, salvaging yesterday’s over-herbed veg into a smashing frittata with eggs from the market. Added some smoked trout we’d impulse-bought—silky, salty, and straight from the Avon. Evenings blurred into pub crawls: the Raven for fish and chips (batter like clouds, mushy peas on point), and a sneaky visit to the Old Malt House for their cider-battered cod. Each meal tied back to the lodge’s charm—that kitchen begging for more experiments, the views making every bite feel like a mini-celebration.

By day three’s arrival-fresh mindset, Netherfield Watersedge Lodge had us hooked. It’s not just a stay; it’s a launchpad for Bath’s grubby glories—markets, pubs, and home-cooked triumphs (mostly). If you’re after first impressions that stick, this is your spot. We’re already plotting a return for more mishaps and masterpieces.