The Hamptons of England

A survival guide. Windows, boot rooms and driving on the left.

A friend sent me a Guardian article a few days ago about how loads of Americans—specifically: young, wealthy, tech-y Americans—are moving to the Cotswolds to escape Trump.

The rationale is it offers the chance to live in the quaint English countryside where there is no risk of water shortages, wildfires or demented, roving bands of preppers (at least in the short term).

I showed this to Joel and, with a lofty air, suggested that my newsletter probably helped to popularise the Cotswolds for that particular demographic.

“Come on babe. That’s exactly the slice of America that’s on Substack. I’ve definitely played a role here.”

He suggested gently that I may have overestimated my reach and significance.

Scoffing (I never do this), I allowed that the smash TV adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s Cotswolds epic Rivals, and its heaving bucolic shagging on tennis courts and al fresco under shady oaks by trickling burns, may have had something to do with it. But, doubling down on my role as trendsetter, I pointed out that I am in fact an American in the Cotswolds, coming up on four years now. Ahead of the curve, what?

So, for my American readers, as a fellow American, if you’re planning to relocate to middle England, allow me to share with you some nuggets of wisdom that I have gleaned from my time on these blessed shores.

1. First, it’s quite rainy, so you’ll need to choose a house. An idyllic 17th century stone cottage with a pitched roof of bundled thatch will naturally be your first choice. But allow me to offer you a word of caution. While these cottages are a dream to look at, you would not enjoy living in one. Trust me on that. These cottages were built back when people fetched water from the river and washed their clothes twice a year. They are totally impractical to live in. The kind of thatched, stone cottage that looks super cute dappled with peachy summer sunlight and draped in wisteria was not built to the requirements of 21st century family life—certainly not to the requirements of 21st century American families with their rec rooms and laundry chutes and triple garages—nor to the sizes of 21st century humans (again: certainly not 21st century American humans).

   Don’t believe me? Tiny, blocked-up windows (a hangover, I am told, from the strange, lost “Window Tax”¹ period of English history); staircases that can be ascended only in full crouch; living rooms too small to accommodate more than an armchair; kitchens and bathrooms without natural light. Plus, silverfish and woodlice in the walls. When it floods, the waters will seep up and through the stone floors like the hell-slime of Golgotha in that scene in Dogma with the shit-demon. And if you think, no worries, I can fix all that: no, you can’t. Now would be the time to Google what “Grade II listing” and “conservation area” mean. Planning to alter, extend or replace that thatch or those ancient single-pane sash windows? Think again buddy. But, you know, the wisteria sure looks dreamy.

2. As for house specifications, a boot room is probably the most important thing you can own. More important than kitchen and bathroom combined. If you don’t have one, consider selling a child to acquire one. This is a room just for boots, which get muddy and so need a room of their own in which to sit and think about what they have done. It is impossible to overstate the importance of the boot room. There are, I understand, entire costumiers and decorators who make a living just from the outfitting of boot rooms. They will even, for a small surcharge, pre-muddy your boots to spare you the effort. In any case, you cannot hope to make friends and advance in Cotswolds life without a boot room so please don’t even think about it.

3. Likewise, you will certainly need a room with lots of natural light falling through checked curtains, the sole purpose of which is to prepare your wildflower cuttings, arrange stems and hang loosely-bound bouquets of lavender, tied with sedge grass. Don’t have one? See number 2 above.

4. Now, this one is optional but, if you’re not a monster, you will probably also want a lake, delicately reeded. This is so you can dive at a moment’s notice when you return sweat-stained from the commute to London, after handing over the reins of your horse to a squire who will helpfully materialise when required in the woods at the edge of your manor. What’s that? No squire? See number 2.

5. Now you’ve found a house, in a postcard-perfect village, the first thing you’ll notice is that there is no Uber Eats. Please adjust your food expectations accordingly. You will also find that restaurant options are somewhat constrained. There is no Sichuan, Caribbean or Vietnamese food anywhere west of London and, as for Mexican, you will need to learn to live with crushing disappointment. After vast amounts of fieldwork, I’m pleased to report there is a solid curry place in Chipping Norton. But that’s it. You will want to plan your meals in London many weeks in advance for ramen, conveyor belt sushi and all the other things totally unattainable in the ‘wolds.

6. Country pubs will stop serving food *much* earlier than you expect. Hours, if not days earlier. No, I can’t tell you when. That is something you must learn for yourself.

7. You can, if you are sufficiently charismatic and impressive and popular, join a fancy members’ club to get access to their private members-only restaurants. Note that, if you choose to do so, you must be prepared for all your friends to call you a dickhead when they spot the club app on your phone.

8. Note also that your phone probably has no cell service. Ever.

9. Basically, my advice? Learn to cook.

10. Once you’ve learned to cook, you will also need things to cook. This is where that wooded manor comes into play, so you can live out all your wet-dream grow-your-own millennial fantasies. Luckily, investing in a greenhouse and the right pair of secateurs from Daylesford will transform you instantly into a proficient gardener. A total lack of know-how need not hold you back. A word of warning: make sure that your greenhouse is Crittall-style aluminium in a pleasingly aesthetic colour, say: sage-green or rust-red. Nothing trashier than a plain white uPVC greenhouse.

11. If grow-your-own is too successful and you have to stop because you’ve increased the GDP of the UK so much that it isn’t fair on the other producing nations, you will need some wheels to navigate all those adorable country roads to a grocery store. One can’t ride one’s horse and muddy boots everywhere. Living in the Cotswolds is mostly driving to other places, as it’s quite far from anything in British terms—but, for you? The distances are positively diminutive by American standards. 50 miles round trip to Costco? Nothing.

12. So choose a vehicle. Be warned thought that, if you want to blend in and burnish your credentials, it will need to be a battered Land Rover at least thirty years old, equipped with a snorkel and flecked with mud from driving it around your copious acreage. Anything else is frankly embarrassing.

13. When you are driving, you’ll want to note that the roads, which wind round frequent bends and hills, are approximately the width of a single car and traffic flows at 60 mph in both directions. You’ll also want to look out for bicyclists, walkers and horses—all of which use the motor vehicle roads despite miles of open countryside in every direction—and those fun old arched bridges that bear signs warning that large oncoming vehicles may have to pass under the bridge in the middle of the road. In other words, you may come face to face with an 18-wheeler under this bridge, so perhaps think about tapping that brake. Oh, and did I mention we drive on the left? You’ll want to remember that.

14. A few other miscellaneous survival tips. In the right season, you can get free apples all over the place. No, I won’t tell you where. Well, maybe I will, in a sidebar, for a founders’ subscription.

15. Eggs too, in roadside boxes, if you leave a couple quid.

16. Farmers will get very cross if you walk across their fields. They will definitely shout at you and may also shoot at you, pretending to think you are a pheasant. Don’t risk it.

17. You’re all set. Having now managed to house, feed and convey yourself about in the sunshine for a glorious week of perfect summer, the clouds will reconvene for approximately 51 weeks of rain. At this point, you will retire to your panelled library, with a snifter of malt whiskey, to gaze contentedly on vast swathes of rain-dappled woodland, as your sanity slips steadily into the rearview.

18. Congratulations! You’ve just made it through your first year. Just seven or eight more generations, and you may well be on your way to passing for a local. Of course, unless you can trace your lineage back to pre-Roman conquest, I daresay you’ll never be truly accepted, but still. It’s a small price to pay to live in the Hamptons of England.

19. Oh, and don’t forget to stockpile instant noodles for when all those roads—adorable single lane affairs—and bridges—adorable hump-backed arches—flood and the nearest Tesco is in Cheltenham.

    Good luck!

1. Windows save lives. You heard it here first:

According to Dr D B Reid's report on the sanitary report of Sunderland, published in 1845, the local Health Committee have ‘...witnessed the very evil effect and operation of the window tax; and they do not hesitate to declare that it is their unanimous opinion that the blocking up of the numerous windows caused by the anxiety of their owners to escape the payment of the tax, has, in very many instances, greatly aggravated, and has even...in some cases been the primary cause of much sickness and mortality.'