I’ll never forget the drive to Bath for my three-day jaunt to Pemberley Lodge – a right old faff, starting with the sat-nav deciding to throw a wobbly just past Bristol. “Recalculating,” it droned, as I ended up looping round a cheeky one-way system in some nondescript suburb, honking futilely at a pigeon that had claimed the middle of the road like it owned the place. By the time I trundled into Bath, cheeks flushed and muttering about modern technology, I was proper knackered. But pulling up to Pemberley Lodge on that quiet lane just a stone’s throw from the city centre? Pure magic. This cosy little stone cottage, all ivy-clad and tucked away like a secret Austen heroine’s bolthole, hit me with instant calm. First impressions? It felt like slipping into a warm bath – pun very much intended.

I’d barely dropped my bags in the snug lounge, with its crackling wood burner begging for a light (though it was a balmy spring day), when I met my first character: Mrs Hargreaves, the landlady. She popped round unannounced – “Just to make sure you’ve got the lay of the land, dear!” – a wiry septuagenarian with a perm like a Dorset hedgehog and an accent thick as clotted cream. “Now, don’t you go wandering off to the Roman Baths without popping into the Pump Room first,” she instructed, thrusting a dog-eared map into my hands. “That’s where the real Bath magic happens – tea and gossip!” Her eyes twinkled as she regaled me with tales of “that posh lot from London” who’d stayed last and complained the Aga was “too authentic.” I chuckled, picturing her serving them beans on toast with a side of side-eye. By the time she’d quizzed me on my life story – “Single, are you? Bath’s full of eligible sorts!” – I was hooked. Quirky locals like her make a place sing.

Strolling out for first explorations, the lodge’s spot was spot-on – five minutes’ walk to the heart of Bath, yet worlds away from the coach-party scrum. I ambled down towards Pulteney Bridge, that postcard-perfect Georgian marvel straddling the Avon, and bumped into character number two: Terry, the bridge’s self-appointed historian. Leaning on the railing with a thermos of what smelled like builder’s tea, he was a ruddy-faced chap in a flat cap, regaling a gaggle of tourists with yarns about the bridge’s “haunted” third arch. “Ghost of a Regency smuggler, mark my words!” he boomed, spotting me loitering. “You staying local, lad? That lodge up the lane? Good choice – owned by old Hargreaves, she’s a card. Once chased off a fox with a broom!” We chatted for ages; Terry’s monologue veered from bridge lore to his failed stint as a tour guide (“Too honest for TripAdvisor”). Light as a feather, but his passion for Bath’s nooks – the hidden weirs, the sly alleyways – made my first afternoon electric. I nipped into a nearby café for a cream tea, still grinning at his “Don’t let the seagulls nick your scones – they’re bolder than pickpockets!”

Evening brought the pub crowd into sharp relief. The lodge’s proximity to The Raven, a proper Bath boozer just round the corner, was a godsend. Propping the bar was Big Dave, landlord extraordinaire, a bear of a man with tattoos from his Navy days and stories to match. “First time in Bath?” he asked, sliding over a pint of local Butcombe. Aye, I confessed, and he launched into a monologue about the city’s underbelly: “We’ve got more eccentrics per square mile than anywhere. That bloke over there? Invented a Bath-themed Monopoly – charges a fiver for a game!” Cue howls from the locals, including a pint-sized grandma named Dot who claimed she’d “modelled for the Jane Austen Centre waxworks.” Their banter flowed like the Avon – ribbing each other over who’d win a “quaintness contest,” with Dave insisting Pemberley Lodge took the biscuit for its “period-perfect loo that flushes like a thunderstorm.” I was in stitches, nursing my pint, feeling that gentle tug of reflection: in a world of rushed scrollers, these characters reminded me why we travel. Not for selfies, but for souls like theirs, weaving the real tapestry of a place.

By nightfall, back at the lodge, kettle on and fairy lights twinkling in the garden, those first impressions lingered. Bath, through its quirky folk, had me smitten from the off – mishap and all. Can’t wait to return for seconds.