Bath

Bath England

After pushing and shoving our way towards the door we felt like we'd been spat out of the over-crowded train onto the Bath platform. It was so packed I worried Ryan would squeeze out and I would be left on board crying all the way to London. Thankfully a stranger pushed the door open for us and we both made it out, backpacks and all. We stood there on the platform for a while- stunned. We said a blessing of thanks to the helping hands of strangers everywhere.

Eventually we got over our rough start and put our bags down at the B&B. Later standing at the bus stop heading back to the town center we met a true gentleman and Bath native John Emory who was more than happy to point us towards Bath's many treasures. Thanks to John we were able to sneak away from the crowds of "other people" and find quiet streets with tucked away corners. It was the end of May and Bath was brimming with tourismos. We couldn't help but hear American accents as they floated above the crowds sounding long, flat and somehow improper to our British-trained ears.

We probably couldn't have planned it if we tried but it happened to be the opening night of Bath's annual International Music Festival and the whole city was celebrating. There was plenty of free music all around. Outside the Abby's back door there was an old piano with the words "play me I'm yours" painted on it in pink letters. We stood around for a while enjoying the many virtuosos (including a 12 year old boy) as they took turns sitting on the velvet piano stool. Eventually when the sun set the beautiful Abby in the center of town was lit up in changing hues of blue and pink. There was a fireworks display that would put Disney to shame and people dressed in Victorian garb (wigs and all) floated around the city like ghosts. We missed the bus and got lost on our way back to bed- but eventually made it.

The next morning, stuffed to the gills with yet another "full English breakfast" we joined the crowds and caught a glimpse of what Baths' famous for; Roman Bathhouses built by Celtic craftsmen over England's only thermal springs. We took the audio tour (laden with quirky British humor) and nudged our way through. Except for the led lined pipes and pools, those Romans sure knew how to build. By the sign that read, "don't touch the water" we knelt down to test the temperature with the tips of our fingers. A lone mallard gracefully landed in the warm courtyard pool and called for his mate. We made our wishes on one pence and one stow-away penny and marveled at the shadowy ripples they left behind as they sank to the bottom of the Roman cold-plunge; a cavernous stone room dramatically lit thanks to the British National Trust.

We had our Teatime at a corner café and wondered why the fiddling tightrope walker captured a crown only half the size the juggling fire-eater was able to round up on the opposite corner. Dave our B&B owner graciously delivered our backpacks to the formerly cursed train station promptly at 5:pm and we were on the 5:30 to Swindon.