Rural hideout celebrities are flocking to
Ellen DeGeneres and her wife, Portia de Rossi, recently set up camp in the ritzy neighbourhood, which is a known favourite among the Hollywood elite.
The former talk show host, 67, and 'Arrested Development' alum left Los Angeles five months ago after buying a sprawling farmhouse in the area in South West England, nearly two hours from London, the New York Post reports.
The couple forked over an eye-popping $US18 million ($A28 million) — some $US3 million ($A4.7 million) over the asking price for the stunning property.
TMZ reported that while the duo had purchased their UK home in June, months before Donald Trump's second presidential win, their decision to 'get the hell out' of America was cemented by his victory.
DeGeneres was an outspoken supporter of Harris during the 2024 presidential election, publicly endorsing her in a post shared on Instagram.
While it's not clear exactly why the pair decided on the Cotswolds, the region is a picturesque and wealthy part of England.
Celebrities who call the Cotswolds home
DeGeneres' star-studded list of neighbours includes David and Victoria Beckham, Kate Moss, Elizabeth Hurley, Hugh Grant and Jeremy Clarkson, who owns a successful farm shop and pub in the area.
Other known residents include Scottish DJ Calvin Harris, singer Lily Allen and artist Damien Hirst.
The location is also home to royalty, as King Charles and Queen Camilla own Highgrove House in Gloucestershire.
According to the Daily Mail, Beyoncé and her husband, Jay-Z, are looking to follow suit and snap up a property in the swanky neighbourhood.
Properties aside, the area sees large amounts of celebrities come and go each month thanks to the several luxurious hotels that are peppered around the region.
'Get the hell out': Ellen's sad goodbye
Lucknam Park
This includes Lucknam Park, a five-star oasis located in the luscious area of Chippenham.
The hotel, which is set in 500 acres of listed parkland, has recently welcomed a host of famous faces, including Donatella Versace, Kylie Minogue and Jerry Hall, The Post revealed.
The main house, which dates back to the 17th century, sits atop a mile-long driveway, which is lined with 200-year-old lime and beech trees, and is located just 30 minutes away from the picturesque city of Bath.
The estate also offers Michelin-starred dining at Restaurant Hywel Jones, which is often frequented by A-listers. The restaurant recently celebrated its 20th consecutive year holding a Michelin star.
The grand property had been previously passed down through several families before opening its doors as a hotel. Its current owners snapped it up in 1994, but preserved the historic elements of the estate where possible.
The Lygon Arms
Those wanting a more central location often stay at the Lygon Arms — a historic 4-star hotel that boasts close proximity to cinematic landmarks, such as 'Downton Abbey' and 'Bridget Jones's Diary' filming locations.
The hotel is set in Broadway — a stunning village in the Cotswolds that offers wisteria-adorned stone cottages and Disney-like buildings surrounding it.
Beyond famous film sets, guests can feel like an A-lister through the hotel's partnership with Cotswold Tours & Travel, which offers an array of sightseeing trips in and around the area.
These include — but aren't limited to — the ultimate set-jetting experience, which includes a tour of the nearby Blenheim Palace and a chance to uncover the area's hidden gems.
The hotel proudly dates back to the 14th century.
Over the years, its hosted some famous historical figures and celebrities, including Oliver Cromwell, King Charles I, Prince Phillip, Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor and Cary Grant.
More recently, the hotel has been frequented by James Bond alum Pierce Brosnan, Renée Zellweger, Grant and Sophia Loren, The Post revealed.
The sprawling lodge offers guests 86 individually designed rooms to choose from, and boasts two restaurants helmed by British chef supremo James Martin.
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From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value. We were going through a phase with measuring tapes. Pulling out the taut metal band and recoiling as it snapped back into its heavy yellow box. Go slowly. See the numbers? We can use it to measure how big something is. Hudson was a bit over two at the time and our world was one of happy chatter. He sang songs to me and would parrot lines from his favourite books. We spent sunny winter days making tiny and significant discoveries at the beach, painting with our hands and learning the names of all the whales. It was on one of these idyllic days, stretching out a measuring tape across anything we could find in the backyard, that he turned his earnest face toward me and asked, "How big is the sky?" As with all good questions from children, it made me reconsider what I thought I knew. At the time, he described the world to us with imagery and nuance. He was also captivated by measuring tapes, the ocean and all the secrets that it holds. In a pre-maternity life, I taught secondary school English literature. That is where, perhaps somewhat surprisingly, I became enamoured with picture books. One may expect that I would have formed a bond earlier, say, in my own childhood. But I can't remember anything before early readers (my favourite of which was the zany and enigmatic Go Dog Go by P. D. Eastman). The books I was finding as a teacher were, however, unlike anything I had read before - they felt strangely opulent, magnanimous in their imagery and ideas. Imagine! A tiny gallery that you can hold in your hands! I would pour over the works of Shaun Tan and Armin Greder and ask teenagers questions about wonder and urbanisation, otherness and the politics of belonging. That was when the seed fell and pressed itself into the dormant soil of a full-time teacher: one day I would make my own tiny galleries rich with ideas and beauty. When the measuring tape couldn't stretch across the vast cerulean ceiling above us, I knew it was time. The idea was elegant enough - some things simply cannot be measured. My debut picture book, How Big is the Sky?, begins by introducing young readers to scientific and mathematical concepts such as distance, weight and volume along with the instruments used to measure them. Drawing us into the world of a child as he sets off on an oceanic adventure with his family, the quantitative science extends to the immaterial in an exploration to find "the most important things" - because, while many things in our world can be counted, other things aren't so easy to measure. Like the warmth of laughter or love that's as limitless as the sky. How do you measure the immeasurable things? It is impossible to talk about this book without talking about my son. Not only because it is his idea that is painted across the cover, but because he has radically reframed what the "important things" are for me. During the years it took to envision and bring this book into existence, my son lost his ability to speak. As I fussed over early manuscripts and submitted illustrated drafts through a global pandemic, beside me, the songs and chatter of my son grew eerily silent. Mysteriously, achingly, as Hudson grew older, his words became trapped inside him. The parental panic of watching our son withdraw from the world and then from us - fearful, restless, angry - was not only painful, it was disorienting. The direction I thought we were headed, the places I had hung my values, were no longer relevant to my life. It became shockingly apparent that what was important had very little to do with scores, rankings or external measures of success. And while I thought I already knew this, our new reality shed light onto the superficiality of my ideals and demanded a shift of paradigm. As Helen Keller reflected in a letter to Rev. Phillip Brookes in 1891, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but [must be] felt with the heart". From someone else these words could seem quaint and rather trite, but as a Deafblind activist with her own torturous childhood of silence and frustration, Keller's words sit heavy with me. As an adult, the noisy demands of life often attach themselves to numbers and figures, deadlines and dot points. As an educator I watch young people adapt to the world of comparison and evaluation all too quickly, often confusing assessment with their sense of intrinsic value. We are bombarded, every day, with messaging that can make us feel like we need to measure up. I wrote this book because I wanted to point towards other metrics of worth. Things like generosity and courage, wonder and curiosity. Loyalty, determination, pride, love - these are all things that imbue our lives with meaning, and they are the things that we remember long after we've forgotten things like times, places, scores or rankings. This book, then, is not just about the measuring tape, it's about presenting the profound truth that the most wondrous, awe-inspiring things cannot be put on a scale or measured with a ruler or an altimeter. We already know that, but sometimes we all need a little reminding. While Hudson's words remain trapped inside of him right now, his ideas remain just as expansive. He shows us every day that things don't have to be quantified or even seen or heard to be real, hold weight and be of tremendous value.
