We almost did not go. London had us happily occupied, and Bath was only ever a maybe. I am so glad we went. Ninety minutes on the train, and we stepped out into a city of honey-colored stone that seemed to slow our heartbeats by half.
We walked the Roman baths, marveled that something so old could feel so intimate, and then did very little else of consequence — a long lunch, a slow loop of the streets, a train home in the soft evening light. Some of the best days of travel are the ones with the least on them.