Shocked in the shires

I grew up in the Cotswolds. A lot of my family still lives here. I’m back often enough to know what’s changed and what hasn’t - the restaurants that have just opened, the pubs that have closed, and yes, the latest addition to the Bamford empire. And while apparently there’s been a recent uptick in burglaries, let’s get one thing straight: the Cotswolds is not Compton.

According to a recent Times article, wealthy newcomers to our “chocolate box” villages have been left shocked by a spate of thefts, particularly those involving nicking someone’s Porsche off the drive.

Since the pandemic, the media has relished regularly telling tales of the mega wealthy moving here from London, Los Angeles, and other corners of the globe, dropping seven figures on honey-stone houses and parking mega cars on the drive, before decamping to Soho Farmhouse for homemade bramble gin cocktails.

Yet, word travels fast in the countryside, and before long, someone decides to liberate those vehicles in the dead of night. The outrage! The disbelief! The assumption that the countryside is a crime-free utopia - as if the criminals will roll up, take one look at the thatched roofs, and think, “oh no, this place is far too pretty to burgle”.

Who’s to say the local burglar wasn’t sipping on the same bramble gin cocktail, thumbing through the latest House & Home double-page spread with our newest celebrity resident modestly explaining how they “fell in love” with a £5 million Cotswold doer-upper and its quaint three-acre garden. To be honest I was rather disappointed that a local chancer didn’t have a crack at driving off in one of JD Vance’s 20-car motorcades during the Vice President’s recent visit.

Look, I’m not saying having your home broken into isn’t horrible – it’s awful. But this isn’t some dystopian rural crime wave. Statistically, it’s still remarkably safe here. What’s changed is the profile of the victims, and perhaps their expectations. When you arrive in the Cotswolds with a load of flash toys and the belief that your postcode is a magic crime-repellent, the reality check is rather sobering.

And whilst I hugely sympathise with anyone who falls victim of such a crime, the alleged fury over a “lack of police presence” really does leave me scratching my head. I knew by 17 that there were rarely more than four active officers covering nearby Cheltenham on some evenings, so the idea that West Oxfordshire Constabulary could have a Bobby posted on every Cotswold village green in case a Bentley looks nervous is simply preposterous.

Because the truth is simple: whether your house looks like a postcard or an inner city terrace, if you leave a sports car on the drive and tell everyone about it, someone might fancy nicking it. This is England in 2025 after all.