When I finally wake up this morning, I roll over and look at the time. It feels good to sleep in, but it’s late and it suddenly occurs to me that I’ve missed one of Sue and Derek’s wonderful homemade breakfasts downstairs.
When I head out the door of 3 Abbey Green, I have to brace myself against the pounding wind and pouring rain. By now, I’ve grown weary of wearing the same black raincoat day in and day out, so I on a whim I buy a new mint green scarf with a butterfly pattern at a small boutique called Pink Lemons Too. It’s the least I can do elevate my mood, and it will help to keep me warm.
On my first visit to Bath in 2007, inclement weather and a cranky mood drove me back to London early, so this time I am determined to be more resilient. I want to visit the Abbey and a number of small museums in town. The church is what’s close, so after pausing for a moment to admire the stone angels that rise and fall upon Jacob’s ladder on either side of the west front entrance, I pull open the heavy wooden doors and walk in.
In truth, I’m not a religious person. I am, at best, a lapsed Catholic with an interest in art history and architecture. Nevertheless, I find myself drawn to Europe’s cathedrals time and time again for reasons that speak more to the heart than the head, and Bath Abbey is no exception. It is a glorious space—open and flooded with colored light, even on a gray and dreary day, owing to a plethora of stained glass windows. The small guidebook I purchased from the gift shop on the way in says that the Abbey gives pilgrims “a glimpse of Heaven from their places on Earth.” In craning my neck toward the fan vaulting high above the nave, it would be hard to disagree. The carving is delicate and beautifully proportioned, rising between tall windows and splaying out like the pleats of a scallop shell.
By now, my stomach is growling. I stop for lunch at a branch of the West Cornwall Pasty Company and then wander aimlessly about the streets of Bath for a while, looking in shop windows. At the Makery Emporium, there is a folksy bust of Queen Elizabeth knitted entirely of yarn, and at the Uttam Boutique there is a gaudy pair of Union Jack panty hose on display.
I walk further to the Bartlett Street Antique Centre, and then on past The Circus to John Wood’s Georgian masterpiece, the Royal Crescent. It is a graceful arc of thirty townhouses, all crafted from the same honey-colored stone in the same conservative, Palladian style, dressed in rows of Ionic columns and stone balustrades. The overall effect is somehow greater than the sum of its parts, a triumph of order and symmetry that stands proud against a massive lawn in front. Because of all the rain, Britain’s lawns have never looks so green.
To escape the howling, wet wind, I duck into No. 1 Royal Crescent, a small house museum operated by the Bath Preservation Trust that presents a typical, wealthy interior from the period, with a sumptuous dining room and an elegant drawing room with green damask walls.
By now it’s mid-afternoon, but still cold enough to wrap a scarf tight around my neck. I retrace my steps back toward the Abbey and decide to stop at Hands Tearoom for a bite to eat. As I wrap my frozen fingers around a hot cup of tea with milk and bite into a fresh Bath bun to find a melted lump of sugar inside, I sigh and marvel at how easy it is to find pleasure in the smallest of things.
I walk across Pulteney Bridge and down Great Pulteney Street to the Holborne Museum of Art and finish the day by exploring its eclectic galleries of Old Master paintings, majolica dishes, and portrait miniatures.
For dinner, I settle into a cozy table at Tilly’s Bistro and order a plate of Pork Dijonnaise— tender meat in a rich, mustard sauce. On the short walk back to my hotel afterwards, I stop to enjoy the stained glass windows in the Abbey. The sky is growing dim, a stormy cobalt blue, and the colored panes of glass are glowing from light within, which makes the imposing old church look warm and inviting. Perhaps there’s a service or a concert inside, but my brain is too tired and my muscles too sore. For now, all I want is sleep.
The Independent Traveler 