I’m a rich American in the Cotswolds – I learned to keep my head down and be polite

The Carousel of the Ridiculous – a term coined by my husband – perfectly describes Harry and Meghan’s recent descent into the Cotswolds, i.e. my neck of the woods. Like Brexit, their decision to up sticks from Montecito and land here in Northamptonshire has completely divided my community. There are those who start conversations with “I don’t give a superlative”, and those who admit to hiding in some layby to spot the presidential convoy containing Archie and Lilibet on their way to school. The circus is unusual for this part of the world. Many celebrities and minor royals have enrolled in the three best known prep schools in the Cotswolds, yet never managed to capture so much as a local reporter’s interest. The well-known British characteristics of keeping your head down, not attracting attention, not making any demands – because that tends to make your presence known in a bad way – seem to have completely passed the couple by. “Parents received a letter telling them their children could not bring smart phones to school in case they took a picture,” says a friend who went to the school Archie and Lilibet started at this month. (They have reportedly now changed school due to security issues surrounding the commute). Briefings and social media announcements suggest low key is not on the cards. Shorts Generating so much interest in so little time is a sign of things to come. Americans (I’m one of them), particularly the wealthy and famous kind, do not feel embarrassed about their status – quite the opposite. They flaunt it. Americans believe that we are what we are because we earned it, or at least manifested it, and therefore everyone else should know we’re important and deserve special consideration. This might work in Beverly Hills or the Hamptons, but I fear Meghan is in for a shock in the Cotswolds. First: the other non-American parents. They live in the country for a reason and a lot of that has to do with not wanting the aggro of London. Parents who educated their children here tell me it’s all about community spirit, sewing name tags into school uniforms (yourself) and labelling the right cake tin for Pony club. School runs are long and boring but that’s the trade-off for a gentler approach to education. Sending a nanny or driver – or a security detail – is not on. Country mothers are also hands-off, meaning headmasters and mistresses do not receive emails at 3am demanding to know if the strawberries were locally sourced. London is chock-a-block with pushy professional parents who demand PTAs (my kids’ London day school did, but it was full of Americans). This is not how it works in the Cotswolds. “We snogged behind the shed at school at age nine,” says my local friend. “We weren’t feral, but there wasn’t a lot of supervision. It’s rough and tumble.” My neighbours’ quite young children hunt before they even start school. Country communities are tight: arriving at coffee morning in an armoured convoy of Range Rovers is probably going to rule you out. There are, of course, all manner of exclusive private members clubs here, from Bamford to Soho Farmhouse, but one friend says staff will be wary of Harry and Meghan’s security requirements and standards. “There are plenty of VIPs, but they’re low key,” she says. Other issues Americans have to reckon with in the Cotswolds include staff and service in general. The inverse of America is true here. The more you demand a plumber hurry up and arrive in the Cotswolds, the slower he will be. You will be blanked. He will share all the nasty texts you sent with all of his fellow tradesmen in the pub. Builders don’t care if you’re unhappy because they have their pick of polite British billionaires (there are lots of those). I know ours think I’m a bit of a mini-Meghan. I have to pass my texts via my English husband to make sure the language is appropriately floral and polite and apologetic. Then there is staff. What? It’s almost an oxymoron in these parts because the days of the local big wig having the little wigs of the village making them coffee in the morning are long over. There are two kinds of staff in my parts: those who come from fancy agencies and demand housing and health insurance and 12 weeks’ holiday and lawyers to draft their 20-page employment contracts, and those recruited via community WhatsApp groups who turn out to be the 18-year-old children of your next-door neighbour. Yell at them, and you’ll get the local farmer turning up with a pitchfork. As for the fancy staff that fancy agencies send, they know all about NDAs, Americans and celebrities. We have a couple of very “exacting” American local friends who can only recruit Albanians now because the rest don’t even show up for interviews. Demanding that all surfaces be sanitised at all times and the sheets monogrammed and ironed daily won’t wash outside of the M25. I am always amazed at how dirty the poshest houses are in my parts. The combination of dogs, horses and wellies makes it almost impossible to maintain standards, and then there are the side effects of everyone’s lovely composting and organic garden produce: rodents. Nobody in big houses seems to care much, but it’s not exactly Instagrammable. It’s also cold. That’s another discovery for Americans: unless you buy a reasonably sized house (five bedrooms max) and insulate it, you will be cold all the time. I’ve been to grand estates where, regardless of the two or three boilers and bank accounts with which to fill them, no room ever warms up properly. I bring electric blankets wherever I go. Cotswold houses – especially those with underfloor heating – feel like early winter temperatures for Americans. The upper class British hate being hot (hence all the complaining this summer): they grew up cold, went to cold boarding schools, then Scotland for summer. Finally, the small stuff. Cars stop to let you pass in the Cotswolds. Everyone says, “you first”. Rushing is for fools. If someone in our village is planning a wedding, they use the marquee to invite the whole of the town to drinks the day after to apologise for the inconvenience. You know your neighbours and pick up each other’s Amazon packages. Those with large, award-winning gardens open them in summer knowing full well that some nosey parker will sneak in, but it’s part of rubbing in. That goes a long way to people putting up with the drone that flew overhead to take pictures or the paparazzi that hid in the bushes and blocked traffic. We have some famous neighbours who are incredibly generous and involved. When their outhouse was robbed, everyone got busy checking their security cameras and calling the police until they showed up and the culprits were found. Showing up in church is kind of demanded if you want to be invited for dinner or to shoot. There are a fair few Americans in the Cotswolds now. Those who aren’t passing through (or taking off every winter like Ellen DeGeneres does) play by the rules. My worry is that Harry and Meghan want attention – which is not how it’s done.