Reflections on Moving to the Cotswolds
Two and a half years on, I can see so clearly how those early school days became one of the first places our kids truly found their footing in the UK. At the time, everything felt new and slightly surreal — the uniforms, the accents, the routines — but looking back now, it’s obvious that school was one of the anchors that helped our family settle long before we had a home of our own or any real sense of belonging.
In those first months, the kids joined a small independent school in Stonehouse. We chose it intentionally — a gentle landing place, a ready‑made community, a way to give them stability while the rest of our life still felt like it was floating. It was the kind of school where teachers knew every child by name, where the playground felt safe and familiar, and where our kids could ease into a new country without being swallowed by the size of it.
Every morning, we drove from Brimscombe to Stonehouse — a route that should have been quick but was often stretched by the endless roadworks that seemed to rearrange themselves weekly. Those drives became their own kind of ritual: the four of us in the car, navigating detours, learning the back roads, watching the landscape shift with the seasons. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was grounding. A small, daily act of commitment to the life we were building.
I still remember that first morning: our four‑year‑old and eight‑year‑old slipping into their newly labelled jumpers, nervous and excited and a little scared of the unknown. One so small, the other suddenly seeming older than his years, both stepping into a new country, a new school, a new life. They supported each other through those early days in a way that made us incredibly proud — two siblings navigating something big, side by side. Children have this remarkable ability to trust the moment even when it feels overwhelming, and to adapt faster than the adults who bring them across oceans. Watching them walk through those school doors together steadied me more than they’ll ever know.
School here felt familiar and entirely different all at once. There were the uniforms that needed labelling, the structure and discipline woven into each day, and the novelty of hot dinners served in the hall. “Break time” instead of recess, “maths” instead of math, football instead of soccer, PE kits that had to be packed and remembered, and Religious Education taught with an openness and inclusivity we really appreciated. And then there were the systems our kids quickly learned to navigate — house points, red and green cards, little markers of behaviour and effort that felt both new and strangely charming. Even the sports were different: cricket, netball, and games they’d only ever seen in books or on screens, all part of this new rhythm they were learning to understand.
Of course, there were wobbles. Missing old friends and family. Navigating unfamiliar routines. Realising that learning is taken seriously here and that disruption simply isn’t tolerated. There were moments of overwhelm and adjustment, as there always are with big change. But those moments feel small now compared to the joy of watching them grow roots here — in the classroom, on the playground, along the footpaths they now know by heart.
Looking back, that little school in Stonehouse was one of the first places that made this move feel less like a leap and more like a landing. It gave our kids a sense of belonging long before my husband and I found our own footing here. It offered community, routine, and a soft place to land while everything else was still shifting — the kind of foundation you only recognise in hindsight.
