Welcome to the Cotswolds, Ellen! The counties would have thrown you a parade, except most of the farmers (who you will often sit next to at dinner because all British male celebrities including David Beckham and Alex James love to think they’re men of the land) were recently striking against the government (don’t worry, no one so much as hollered, too impolite).
What to look out for, apart from British Range Rovers (our version of Cybertrucks at twice the price) that don’t actually fit in the tiny lanes surrounding your house? Lifestyle-wise, we are not Santa Barbara.
Much as the Cotswolds likes to compare itself to the Hamptons, one bougie organic farm shop called Daylesford (Erewhon meets Esalen) doesn’t really cut it. You won’t find a Kundalini or breathwork studio nearby. Stroud has its fair share of hippies (as well as the artist Damien Hirst) but they’re the kind that live in caravans and don’t wash. Best to avoid the cognitive-enhancing Fungi, Lion’s mane, they sell at the famous Saturday market: it comes to life on its own.
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You don’t strike me as being very much into fashion which is good because the Cotswolds has a strict uniform of wellies and/or riding boots, jeans, some nondescript moth-bitten sweater and Schöffel overcoat. Your neighbors Simon Cowell, Victoria Beckham, Kate Moss, and Liz Hurley might wear Gucci or The Row inside but trust me, they don’t go outside without flinging extra mud on those boots. (Don’t forget King Charles and his horsey Queen set the local sartorial tone.)
Ignore my rules and you’ll be deemed a weekender. That means immediate exclusion from the Hunt Ball, the Oscars of the Cotswolds. Of course, you won’t know you’ve been excluded because no one in the Cotswolds ever talks about shooting or hunting because both have been “technically” cancelled. (Post a picture of some man in tweeds with a shotgun on Instagram and you’ll be exiled back to Montecito.)
As for stylists, this sort of thing usually happens in someone’s out building with six friends in situ all getting highlights done for $100 or less, so I recommend helicoptering to see my stylist Fred Gielly in London. He doubles up as a shrink to the famous, so you’ll feel right at home.
You are not alone in your transatlantic migration: it is reported that celebrities including Barbra Streisand and America Ferrera may be heading to Britain too following Trump’s re-election. On Sunday, an American couple, Faith and Chuck (for now, on holiday, but who knows what will happen next), abruptly landed in The Archers, the long-running BBC radio soap opera that may not be set in the Cotswolds, but in its bucolically rendered locale of Ambridge is as redolent of the British countryside as it gets.
Americans already know the prettified-beyond-pretty version of the Cotswolds thanks to all the high hedges, snowy fields, honey-colored stone, and dinky churches in the Bridget Jones movies, The Holiday, and Pride and Prejudice. Rivals, the spicy adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s 80s-set novel, has been a huge recent TV hit—full of hot sex, wild partying, and very majestic lawns.
The best part of the Cotswolds is that it still very British, meaning any controversial subject (including your marriage to Portia de Rossi) will never come up. Putin could be lobbing missiles our way and you’ll still be asked about your last holiday.
Of course we also have two ex prime ministers, David Cameron and Boris Johnson (though they hate each so much you won’t ever find them at the same dinner party). What attracts Americans including billionaire and fellow Californian Roland Burke (who owns the majority share of Soho House) to the Cotswolds is its proximity to London. It’s less than half the slog the Hamptons is from Manhattan: by train (or helicopter) you can finish lunch at 5 Hertford Street and be sipping tea with Princess Anne by 4 p.m.
Somerset gets column inches but have you been there? There’s literally one town, Bruton, worth bothering with. The rest is just mud. The Cotswolds has an S because its spans many counties (Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, Warwickshire, Wiltshire, and Worcestershire), all of them with a resident famous person, hipster pub, and spa. Ellen, we hear you have already been seen at the swanky, expansive RH England headquarters at Aynho Park. Then there’s Soho Farmhouse, the place to be seen but mostly if you’re under 30 (sorry Ellen).
I hated all this once, but now I’m grateful for British manners. When you’re chugging down a country lane built by the Romans (and intended for wooden chariots), some nice citizen will stop one mile down to let you pass. When you pitch up to the most exclusive store in the Cotswolds, Waitrose (a supermarket), some nice woman in riding boots will say “after you”.
Doing a Meghan (I demand satisfaction now…) might scare a plumber into making a house call once, but eventually you’ll find tradesmen don’t answer your calls here either. The Cotswolds may look like a set of Downtown, but there are a lot more upstairs than downstairs people, meaning bullying backfires (everyone knows this part of your story because they watched the Netflix doc). Power outages and flooding are daily occurrences in winter. Alienate your local electrician, plumber, WIFI engineer or neighbors, and you’ll be cooking underwater by candlelight.
You could go out of course, but that doesn’t mean anything. No-one goes “out” in the Cotswolds except for the locals (your plumber) who fill every pub up apart from the ones designed for “weekenders” (if there’s sheepskin on chairs, run). The Cotswolds is about Saturday dinner parties, to which you will of course be invited unless they’re cancelled because finding a waiter or waitress or cook or butler is our idea of a competitive sport. Being a celebrity won’t help: for every local willing to garden, clean or wash dishes, there are a hundred billionaires ahead of the queue including Lady Bamford, our local Martha Stewart.
What you will appreciate is the beauty. The Cotswolds are still unspoilt. Americans love the local villages that look like Disney movie sets but date back thousands of years (you’ll know because it takes four days for your house to warm up).
For some reason, all Cotswolds residents paint their shutters, drainpipes and woodwork in the same muted color palette (by the British paint manufacturer Farrow & Ball). Every garden is meticulously attended to, usually by the owner. Dogs are welcome everywhere unless they’re some freaky breed like a Pomeranian, in which case people will tsk tsk behind your back.
You might miss California when the “rains come” as I call it, but at least no one pretends to be happy here. Complaining is British self-help. When in doubt, just mention the weather forecast and you’ll make an instant new friend.
