Cotswolds

Tuesday

Tom Payne

A post-Brexit entertainment: The Proof of My Innocence, by Jonathan Coe, reviewed

This is a novel that spans the Truss administration, from its heady dawn to its decline and fall 49 days later. The Proof of My Innocence starts as a satire, not so much of Truss and her world but the ideologists who thought that the prime minister’s brief, shining moment was their long-cherished future. They meet in a collapsing Cotswolds castle to hear from delegates such as Josephine Winshaw, who intones that everything now is woke: ‘Paying your TV licence was woke. Getting vaccinated was woke… buying avocados was woke, and reading novels was woke.’ Another speaker praises a reactionary novelist to a much smaller audience. Into this milieu steps

Wednesday

Joanna Rossiter

Why Warwickshire rivals the Cotswolds for rural living

Have we reached peak Cotswolds? Not if the queues outside Diddly Squat Farm Shop near the village of Charlbury are anything to go by. Locals bemoan the traffic jams around Jeremy Clarkson’s estate as fans flock from far and wide to take home a bottle of the ‘cow juice’ from the Clarkson’s Farm TV series. Clarkson’s tongue-in-cheek product is a wry nod to the area’s reputation for rural chic, forged by the likes of Lady Bamford’s Daylesford Organic farm shop – where a scented candle will set you back £49 – and Nick Jones’s Soho Farmhouse, where a stay in a luxury ‘piglet house’ costs £395 a night. These luxury brands

Thursday

Rachel Johnson

They do things differently in the Cotswolds

The Season has ended and – apart from The Spectator’s summer bash of course – the two bang-up parties of July were discos in the Cotswolds. They do things differently there. At Jemima Goldsmith’s I danced so hard in high heels with a selection of her handsome young swains that I suspect the double hip replacement will be sooner rather than later. At Carrie and Boris’s Daylesford wedding do in a magical flower-filled field we all busted out our best moves. I was taught the slut-drop by Liz Hurley years ago in Nick Coleridge’s party barn in Worcestershire. She demonstrated how to collapse to the floor like a broken deckchair