House-buying plot thickens

HOSE who have followed my house-buying saga in France will be aware I have warmed to the idea slowly, having had the entire concept sprung on me during a week in Limousin last summer.

After returning from putting a deposit down on the town house, I had one week of holiday left before the football season started and believed I needed it because I did not feel that rested and relaxed following the trauma of house-buying under the pressure of a short time-scale.

The break gave me an opportunity to fly down to Barcelona to stay with my youngest daughter for a few days and then pop up to my favourite village resort on the coast.

I was warned, before I went to Barcelona, to keep my hands on my wallet and, indeed, down in the tourist areas, my daughter and her partner told me, they occasionally hear the strangulated cry of a female tourist as her bag is snatched.

I spent three days in the city, becoming totally converted to Gaudi's architecture, filming this and that and wandering the old streets at night without so much as a hint someone might consider lifting my movie camera.

For three evenings I sat out with my daughter and her partner in a local square off the tourist beat after midnight, drinking rioja, along with perhaps 100 others, the majority of whom were much younger than me.

There was an absence of fights, confrontations or aggressive body language, while the alcohol continued to flow.

It was totally relaxed and I could not easily imagine a similarly untroubled experience in an English square late on a Saturday night.

One morning, while my daughter was at work, I wandered down to the local square with her partner and, through lack of choice, I purchased an English tabloid newspaper.

In one of the inside pages, I read of a man who consumes large quantities of lager and curries. Apparently his predilection saved his life, for one night he was knocked down and beaten semi-unconscious.

He heard his assailants suggest: "Let's cut him" and heard the opening of a van door and, after some time, was vaguely startled to hear the sound of a chain saw.

There was pain as they cut an 18-inch gash across his stomach which, as surgeons later remarked, was so thick in fat, the saw-blade did not reach any vital organs.

Having just put a deposit on a house in France, it seemed a timely reminder that the old country is not quite what it was.

As for his attackers, I don't doubt such pond-life also breeds in France, but the time I am sufficiently versed in the language to be able to read about such things in French newspapers, is some way off.

But there is a quality of acceptance about these things in England.

For example, the whole ghastly saga was stuck on an inside page while something exceedingly trivial, about an EastEnder's actresses' impending baby, filled the front page.

After three days, I travelled up to the Spanish village-resort and chilled out mentally, if not physically, for a few days, mulling over the direction my life seemed to be taking.

The final contract for the house in France came through and, in October, my wife booked to go over to sign for both of us.

Naturally, we talked about the need to buy essential items.

I had been so concerned with the liabilities of buying a house abroad and itemising what I will miss if I moved to France, it was the first time I began to get enthusiastic, so much so, I found myself booking a lightning visit to Limousin to join her.

I just needed to study the house over an afternoon and an evening before flying back the next lunchtime.

In the small town of Benevent in Limousin, the man from the electricity board, was still there even though my plane was late and we had kept him waiting 15 minutes.

He changed all the fuses and switched the power on. He accepted our apologies for his having to wait, and cottoned on to my imitation of a delayed plane, yet he refused a tip and wished us all happiness in France.

Next, we had some essentials to purchase.

At a superb town called La Souteraine, some 14 miles away, we inspected fridge-freezers and cookers, checked the prices and found them competitive.

Yes, the man in the store answered in reply to my successive questions, they delivered and for free, even to a town 14 miles away.

Asked when, the man looked at his watch and his ledger and told us: "About 6.30pm this evening."

Things were going well, it seemed. When he arrived, he discovered the fitting for the cooker was unusual. He returned the next morning with the missing part and fitted it: all at no extra charge.

Never having come across an oil-fired boiler, I had arranged to meet the former owner of the house, who must have thought me the French equivalent of a right prat: a cretin no less.

Apparently you do not have to approach it in the same vein as a gas boiler, namely twist, turn and depress the plunger and, while standing on one leg facing south, hold it until the pilot light burns healthily, in order to ignite the boiler.

"Voila," he exclaimed, pointing at a switch. "On... off," and, just in case I was extra dense, he showed me once more, pointing to the universal signs: "On...off."

However, my request to meet him was justified for his contribution to us finding the stop-cock to turn on the water was invaluable.

We would not have found that for days, for it was down in a recess in the cellar.

While we were waiting for some oil to be delivered, I asked him if there was a garage that could be bought or hired.

With a "Venez avec moi" he took me to his car, pointing out, by way of a useful bonus, where our postbox was housed in a group of them just up the road from the property.

We drove up the road for about a minute, past the cemetery on the very outskirts of the village/town and pulled up outside a lone garage.

"Voila."

I looked inside and this, too, appeared sound but what I could not believe was the view.

It is impressive from the house but this topped everything as I stared across the the rolling countryside.

"Avec domain," he said, pointing to a gate.

He unlocked this and ushered me into a cross between an orchard and a meadow: a significant plot of land with numerous and very varied fruit trees, a kitchen-garden with fruit bushes, and two brick and stone outhouses, all connected to electricity.

There was a well which, with the aid of a pump and succession of hoses, they pumped to the outhouses 70 yards away.

Beyond the plot, the countryside fell away.

While I searched the dictionary for the word for hire or lease, not really comprehending it all, a cow broke the utter silence of the afternoon by gently lowing.

He stated a sum in francs, adding the fact I could buy it.

My mind was whirling again, so loud, I fancied he could hear it against the background of peaceful solitude.

I had reservations about our house, in that the garden did not lend itself to doing anything significant.

As my pal had commented when popping in to survey it: "You have nowhere to park the car and nowhere to have a barbecue."

I do like to potter. Exercise is good for you and I for one have never envisaged a chairbound existence in retirement.

That is probably the reason I enjoy playing golf because you are out and about to some purpose although, in my case, the it usually amounts to a disjointed walk in the woods.

The owner and I conversed some more and I agreed to talk things over with my wife, while I thought of pottering round, retiling the roofs, digging out a pit for the septic tank and suchlike.

We returned with the estate agent an hour later and walked through the plot.

With water and electricity, we could have a sink, shower and toilet up there, sufficient to support staying there all day if need be.

It was like a country retreat just five minutes walk from the house.

"You cannot build or have a mobile home here. It is protected for the environment, but you could moderately extend all the outhouses," I was informed.

There was no holding back on my part. I knew my decision, but awaited the verdict from the other half. In fact I had already made up my mind. It would be my turn to railroad her into a decision but, as I suspected, I did not need to.

"You could certainly potter round here. This is just brilliant. It is wonderful," she whispered, looking over the rolling countryside without another building to obscure the view. "How much is it?"

I told her and she tried her best to keep her face blank.

"You could have a goat or two, perhaps even a donkey or two," she said getting carried away which I countered by pointing out: "This is a plot of land not the bleeding Ark."

I looked around some more, drinking in the tranquillity before moving over to the French contingent.

"We'll have it ," I said and shook hands with the owner on the deal.

This may seem naive in that I did not attempt to barter but, because of the French inheritance laws, all the offspring have a share in any sale and the owners of the house and the land, had ten children, necessitating the signing of ten initial agreements and ten contracts.

To negotiate with ten would be a complicated undertaking.

I was happy with the price, having earmarked more than that for the purchase of a "folly' for me to potter around.

Suddenly, it had all fallen into place.

An oasis of almost three quarters of an acre of rural seclusion just a five-minute walk from the house and it only cost £2,500.

That, together with the property, brought the total price in at less than £25,000.

My friend who had pointed out, upon seeing the house, I had nowhere to barbecue, would be pleasantly surprised and indeed he was.

That evening, there were no second thoughts, anxiety attacks or doubt as my wife, daughter and grandchildren went out for a meal.

Now, the concept of retiring to France in two or three years, had gained a whole new dimension.

January 31, 2003 13:00