My beautiful Bath
And there in Bath, I lived more than one life. Bath saw me as a student, a learner, a dreamer, a searcher, a wanderer, a writer, a reader, a lover, a fighter, and eventually, a founder.
Bath is not for everyone, though. There were times I doubted it at first. Bath felt too small. You could see its landmarks in a weekend, or in a week, or after a couple of visits, and believe you had seen it all. The Roman Baths, the Abbey, the Crescent — tick them off and move on. But that would be unfair.
Bath does not reveal itself to those who hurry.
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The train station- where all the dreams began
September 2024.
“The next stop is Bath Spa”. The announcement from the speaker floated through the carriages in an ordinary tone, one that must have repeated itself thousands of times a year, but for me, it was a drumroll. My heart leapt like a child who had just been told the fairytale was real. After a 21 hour flight from Saigon to Stockholm, then another three hours to Paddington, and finally this last stretch to Bath, I could hardly sit still. I was about to see the city where I would live for a year as a student. A year, such a small word for something that had taken almost forty years to reach.
I arrived with two luggages. Inside them were very few winter clothes, because how could someone from the tropics ever truly understand winter?, but many Vietnamese spices and instant noodles, as if I feared England might not know how to feed a Vietnamese soul. Yet the heaviest thing I carried was not in either suitcase. It was the excitement of finally touching a childhood dream: studying abroad in a Georgian city that looked as if it had been carved out of honey-colored stone and old romance.
Bath, a city of thousands of students arriving each year from every corner of the world. Each of us came carrying something unfinished, something hoped for, something we dared to believe in despite our different backgrounds, languages, and cultures. Some arrived with scholarships, some with savings gathered over decades, some with families’ expectations on their shoulders, others with quiet rebellions in their hearts. Perhaps that is why it is true to call Bath what it really is, not merely a university town, but a city of dreams and that train station is where all the dreams began.
As for me, the moment I arrived in Bath, I felt as if I had touched the sky.
My mom urged my oldest sister to get married when she was seventeen, and she did, more than thirty years ago. That was the world she stepped into. She quit school, took a vocational course, and built her business from scratch, 16 hours a day, 363 days a year. At 50, she could retire after decades of hard work, but even after a serious surgery, she continues the same long hours, determined to build a legacy, she calls it, for her two daughters. She has never travelled. Neither have they, with no desire to chase horizons.
My other sister started earning money at nine, supporting the family while my parents sank into debt. She studied by day and worked by night. She paid off every debt my parents left behind. She built them a house. She sent herself to university, and later, she sent me. At 43, she retired to become a full-time gardener in her own home. She once told her daughter, “You’ll get nothing from me after Uni. If you’re determined enough, you won’t need my money to succeed.” She did not travel much either, but at least she wanted her daughter to see the world.
Another sister chose a softer life of a music teacher, living quietly among melodies and children’s voices, caring little for money because her heart always belonged more to art than materials.
And then there’s me, probably the strangest, craziest, most stubborn and weirdest of all in a family of six siblings. The one who never followed anyone’s path. At 28, I refused an engagement when he said, “I earn enough for you to stay home.” I never looked back, because I knew the world I longed for was far bigger than his kitchen. When I told my mom I was going to the UK to study for a master’s at age 37, she cried: “For what?” I answered: “For my dream, Mom. I have a dream!” Indeed, it was once that's built on years of hunger, hard work, my sisters’ sacrifices, my mother’s disbelief, and my own stubborn faith.
And there in Bath, I lived more than one life. Bath saw me as a student, a learner, a dreamer, a searcher, a wanderer, a writer, a reader, a lover, a fighter, and eventually, a founder.
The house on the hill
February 2026
The last day of my stay in Bath, after my graduation ceremony. I made myself a cup of tea and pulled the chair closer to the window to enjoy the view of Bath from above one more time. Gosh, my dear gosh, tears streamed down my face. I could barely taste the tea. I opened the window to let the fresh air in and said softly, dearly “Goodbye, my beautiful Bath,” while my eyes tried to capture the church, the roofs, the chimneys, the hills, the soft morning light.
I put on mascara again, one more layer of armour, as I often do, then checked out of the house on the hill. It was supposed to be a twenty-minute walk to the train station, but it took six hours instead, and I almost missed my 8 p.m. flight from Stansted Airport. It was a stunning morning, blue sky, bright sunlight, the kind of day that feels almost ironic for a goodbye.
With one hand, I pulled the black luggage; with the other, I held tightly to my purple-green checked scarf so it wouldn’t fly away. It is always windy in Bath, especially walking down from Belvedere to the city centre. I knew this, trust me, I did, because I had walked this exact road for more than a year, almost every day, often two or three times per day, each time carrying a different story, thought, emotion in my chest.
Across the street, near Hedgemead Park, stood the house I had lived in. I stopped at the corner, still holding my suitcase, and my life in Bath replayed in front of me like a movie projected into the air. Every detail felt so real, so close, not a year ago, not months ago, but happening again in that very moment, right before my eyes.
That house and that city had witnessed everything. Bath saw me arriving, living, dreaming, loving, struggling, fighting, losing, finding - all at once. Bath saw me at my highest, living the dream I had fought so hard to reach, and at my lowest, when I wondered whether the dream would undo me. Bath saw me drunk in love and lose love. Bath saw me lose myself, then find my way, slowly gather the pieces again to shape a better version of myself, at least, I hoped.
I stood there for hours, replaying the memories in silence. I feared that if I made a sound, the version of me, the woman who once lived there, might wake up.
There, a mature woman with two luggages arrived in Bath with excitement, curiosity, and confidence, ready to live student life at age 37. I remember dragging those heavy suitcases uphill, sweating but smiling in a blue shirt and white trousers.
There, on the first night in the house near Hedgemead Park, the fire alarm went off at three in the morning. I woke in terror, convinced I had burned something in the kitchen earlier that evening, and ran to the lobby in panic. A man in his mid-fifties stood calmly and told me the system malfunctioned often. “It’s fine. You can go back to sleep,” he said gently. That was my first hello to T, the neighbour my landlady had described as kind and helpful, and she was right.
From that day on, every time I turned the door handle and stepped out of the house toward Hedgemead Park, I felt like Alice, just older in age, falling into wonderland. Bath felt like a gift box that kept unfolding.
There I stood in quiet awe as I watched people in elegant Regency costumes walking through the streets for the Jane Austen Festival. Bonnets, gloves, flowing dresses, tailored coats, they moved as if they had stepped out of another century and into the present.
There, in late September 2024, I wore Áo Dài to the university welcome party. It was 6 p.m., drizzling lightly. Many passed and smiled, some paused and said: “You look so beautiful.” I was sure they meant the dress, and I carried that pride with me to the Architect Hotel.
I saw myself walking back uphill with grocery bags cutting into my fingers, singing softly, shedding coats as my body warmed from the climb.
I saw myself greeting the flowers in Hedgemead Park as if they had bloomed just for me.
I saw myself screaming with joy at the first sight of snow, or what I thought was snow, coming from a tropical country where snow felt mythical. Only later did I learn it was sleet, but the magic was real.
I saw myself storming out of the house, carrying a backpack, a lunchbox, and an umbrella, in fear of missing Bus 20 to the University at 8:05, knowing the next one would only come an hour later.
There, I stormed out of the house again and again, six times with extreme happiness, running and dancing with a millions of butterflies in my stomach to the train station to pick up the person I missed and loved dearly, who flew from the other side of the world to visit me and Bath.
There, I stepped out of the house, my hand in his, dressed for date nights, feeling like a nightingale telling him all my student stories, exploring Bath together.
There, I screamed out happiness every time the sun was out. He said I was probably the drunkest woman in Bath - in sunlight, in love with him and with life.
There, I saw us standing under the full moon, soaking up every minute in Hedgemead Park.
I might have stood there forever if a lady with her dog hadn’t passed by. She smiled and apologised when her dog came to me for a sniff. I laughed. The sunlight flickered on her sunglasses. “What a beautiful day,” I whispered again.
And I continued walking slowly, very slowly, toward the station. That walk was probably the most beautiful walk of my life. Every step carried a year’s worth of memories, where "I've lived, loved, laughed and cried" 🎵
Bath isn’t for those in haste
Bath is not for everyone, though. There were times I doubted it at first. Bath felt too small. You could see its landmarks in a weekend, or in a week, or after a couple of visits, and believe you had seen it all. The Roman Baths, the Abbey, the Crescent — tick them off and move on. But that would be unfair. Bath does not reveal itself to those who hurry.
I came from a sleepless city where life runs 24/7, where food and noise are always available, except on the first day of Lunar New Year, where urgency is almost a virtue. In that world, movement equals productivity, and productivity equals worth. Bath was a shock at first. After 6 p.m., the streets emptied. The cold and quiet felt almost like a freezer. But complaining does not change a city, nor does it bring out the sun. I had known what Bath would be before I came, so I chose to embrace it. And slowly, something inside me began to adjust.
Elsewhere, I rode, drove, ran, rushed. In Bath, I walked. I had never walked so much in my life. I had never walked the same road again and again, yet never experienced the same walk twice.
The city was small enough that every change could be noticed; some faces could be easily remembered. It was so quiet that I could hear my own thoughts, I listened to the wind brushing against the trees, to the water flapping gently in the front yard after rain. Bath slowed me down, taught me to observe, to listen, to feel time and life around me instead of racing against it.
I began to notice things I would once have missed. The way Hedgemead Park changed day by day. The subtle shift of colour in Victoria Park. The Botanical Garden transformed quietly, leaves turning green to yellow to orange, sometimes even purple, falling and then returning again as if nothing had been lost. I saw the same people wearing different coats, carrying different moods on their faces. Sometimes I wondered if they noticed me too, the woman with long curly black hair walking alone, often smiling at nothing, sometimes even singing out loud, grinning.
Bath was small enough that patterns emerged. I recognised shop displays changing in the windows. I noticed when restaurants rotated their staff. I could hear the busker’s voice from a distance before I even turned the corner, the same songs on cold rainy nights on Union Street, on windy evenings the Roman Baths. And on the day I left, he was there again next to The Abbey church, as if the city had arranged one last familiar note for me.
Bath slowed me down even in the queue at Waitrose, where the cashier patiently waited for an elderly woman to find her card with trembling hands and helped her pack every item, more than 10 minutes, without irritation. In my old life, I might have checked my watch. In Bath, I stood there and watched patiently. How could I rush when people were busy showing their kindness?
One day I noticed I myself changed. I arrived with confidence, fifteen years of experience, achievements, but I also arrived with habits of certainty. In classes, I spoke quickly, asserted strongly, defended my arguments. And then, gently, I was challenged. For the first time in a long time, I realised that being wrong was not humiliation but growth and being vulnerable builds stronger partnerships than pride. Slowly, I stopped trying to prove myself and started allowing myself to learn.
In one year in Bath, I realised I had been drinking far more tea than coffee. I said “thank you” and “sorry” more than ever before, including those to bus drivers, to people I bumped into in the streets and to the lamp posts 🙂. Jokes aside, I met so many kind people. The taxi driver who gave me a free ride when my card didn’t work the first day I arrived in Bath, the security guard who asked if I needed help when I looked lost among the shelves searching for... sugar, the University staff who went the extra miles to make sure I would finish my studies during months of sickness, the boys who offered helped when I had a panic attack under Pulteney Bridge, the lady who walked me home that day. The stranger who helped me chase the bus I had left my backpack on.
Many of them, I didn’t know their names, but I remember their faces. Bath is small, and perhaps for that reason, Bath made me feel belong.
The one year that turned into forever
Around noon, I reached Pulteney Bridge and entered the café with my two luggages. The young woman smiled and asked if I was travelling somewhere nice.
I’m going home,” I said. “Vietnam, far away, with loads of sun.” She smiled. When she asked, “Did you have a good time in Bath, ready to leave?” I burst into tears. I couldn't help it.
“I lived here for more than a year,” I told her. “Today is my last day.”
How can anyone be ready to leave a city they love that much? I asked myself silently.
I picked a table by the window with sunlight on my face. I pulled out my Kindle Scribe and wrote Bath a letter. Gosh, my dear gosh, tears streamed down my face again, happiness and longing intertwined. An old couple sat across from me and looked at me with concerned eyes, but I gave a smile to reassure them. On the other side of the street, a shop displayed a frame with a blue butterfly. "Our love is still in the air, still my dear".
I thought of Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, of my life, of all the grand romances ever written about longing and departure. But more than that, I thought about the unwritten stories living behind those windows, about lives of thousands of students. Those arrive here every year carrying suitcases and ambitions, believing they are only coming to study, to work, to begin another chapter. Few of them know that Bath does more than just education, it rearranges their thoughts. And by the time they finally leave, they are no longer the person who first arrived beneath its honey-coloured skies.
I walked around Bath once more, sat down to listen to the same busker, he was singing “My Way.”, what a perfect song as a reminder and for my departure. Behind him, the sky had never been bluer than that afternoon. I strolled to familiar places, bought a book at Waterstones, picked up Postcard Bath magazines at their office, one for me, one for my friend in London, then went to the train station. I sat at the exact spot outside the station where I once picked up my beloved, watching the waits, reunions, the hugs, the relief, the joy, the goodbyes, but nobody was crying that day, except me.
At 3:43 p.m., I boarded the train to Paddington Station.
I came to Bath with two suitcases. I left with two. But somewhere between arriving and leaving, everything inside them, and inside me, had changed.
Things I once packed were slowly replaced by gifts, worn copies of Jane Austen’s novels, lecture notes, a Bath magazine folded carefully between my dresses. But the real weight I carried home could not be seen.
I came searching for an education, for knowledge, for another chapter in my career. And I received all of that. But what the university gave me went far beyond classrooms. It taught me how to think with more depth, how to challenge assumptions, how to sit with complexity instead of rushing toward easy answers. It sharpened not only my mind, but also my understanding of people, ambition, leadership, failure, and myself.
The city changed the way I think, the way I love, the way I see beauty in ordinary mornings and fleeting conversations. It gave me friendships that fI know will last a lifetime, strangers who became part of my story, lessons hidden inside heartbreak, loneliness, laughter, silence, debates, and long walks beneath honey-coloured skies.
Not everything ends when it’s over, does it?
A place you dreamed about, lived, tasted, loved, and woke up all of your senses to love life and love yourself and when you love yourself, that love is forever.
Yes, I brought Bath home with me. But perhaps the truth is, a part of me will always remain there too.
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♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️♾️
"I've loved, I've laughed and cried
I've had my fill, my share of losing
And may I say, not in a shy way
For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught
To say the things he truly feels
And not the words of one who kneels
The record shows I took the blows
My Way
Song by Frank Sinatra
Composed by Paul Anka
