Frome

Frome is what happens when a Somerset wool town gets discovered by people who use the word "maker" as a job title, and it has been enjoying itself ever since. This is a place that declared for the Duke of Monmouth before anyone else, backed the wrong man, got fifty of its own hanged, drawn and quartered for the trouble, and clearly learned nothing, because it still commits early and loudly to whatever it fancies. The steep cobbled streets and the stream running down the middle of Cheap Street are genuinely lovely, and everyone who lives here will tell you so within ninety seconds of meeting you. Bath is thirteen miles north and charges you for the privilege of being Bath; Frome charges you for the privilege of being pleased with itself, which at least comes with better sourdough.