A backhanded, grudging tribute to Bath, from a Bristolian.

Some Place Unplugged 

Like an irritating little brother, 
it skulked, twelve miles down the road.
City as a pampered cat, nestled between 
green and sunlit hills, alongside a curve 

of Avon. That honeyed destination: 
Bath. As a teenager, I reflexively disliked 
the place. Resented the tourists pouring in
to stare at tea shops, quaint holes, polished 

antique remains. Why not come here? 
We had history, crescents built on dubiously
sourced money of our own. Balls to Austen, 
Rugby Boys, Nash and all 

his neat proportions. They could stick it 
up their Assembly Rooms. Who wants to live 
inside a postcard, anyway? That’s how I felt, 
until I took a proper look, decades later. 

Thought about the 10,000 years it takes 
for that hot, iconic water to bubble up, 
from deep beneath the Mendips. A journey 
five times longer, than all the days elapsed 

since Britannia’s Romans built the baths 
themselves. I caught a glimpse of that great 
shaggy head, which may be pagan local god, 
or bearded gorgon. So expressive of surprise, 

the face, captured by imported Gaulish artists. 
I will admit the famous heart-boom song 
by Peter Gabriel, on climbing Little Solsbury 
Hill, really is a classic. Inspired – like those 

other topsy-turvy angels, scaling stony ladders 
at the entrance to the Abbey. Pulteney Bridge 
is handsome. And, you’ll find  a scattering 
of almost perfect pubs. 

Achingly pristine, in golden stone. So, yes, 
alright, old Aquae Sulis may just be on 
to something. A fascinating site, but 
you must admit, it’s not exactly Bristol.