'I'll have the rabbit.' 'And the vegetables?' 'They'll have the same as me.'

Oh dear! I promised you all a blog a week and I’ve let you down. Still no one’s perfect although I’m a lot nearer than most. What shall we talk about today? My recent side trip to picturesque Piemonte? How to play golf on a modest mountain? The guilty pleasure of sneaking over the border to sample some French cuisine? No. Today’s menu features the local Italian restaurant scene.

This may prove a little difficult as I’m trying desperately to avoid identifying the village in which we reside. (I’ve already been outed by one reader who made it clear that he knows where I live but chose not to reveal the name. Thank you kind sir, you’ll get your reward in heaven.) Fortunately we are prepared to journey several kilometres to sample the various delights of Ligurian food and wine. Our culinary stops have taken in Dolceaqua, San Remo, Bordighera, Perinaldo, Isolabona, Ventimiglia and more. I should point at this stage in the proceedings that my wife and I take the drink and drive issue very seriously. My wife does all the driving and I do most of the drinking. I did take a driving test once, but as I felt it was much safer to risk hitting a stationary vehicle on my left rather than a moving one on my right, I was failed for spending too much time on the pavement.

We eat well in Liguria and generally experience excellent service and value. I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t he tell us about that time at the seafront in Bordighera? OK if you insist. We just wanted a snack at lunchtime. We popped into one of the many establishments lining the promenade. Eventually convincing mine hostess in the (suspiciously empty) restaurant that we didn’t require the full a la carte, we were persuaded to try a little fish. It was very pleasant. The restaurant not only lined the promenade but the bill surely lined the pockets of the hostess for many weeks to come. As we left I’m sure I overheard her ordering a new car as she’d ‘very recently come into a little money’.

One of our favourite dining places is hidden down an ancient alleyway in ..oh what a shame I don’t seem to be able to recall the name. Only open three or four days a week the place is always full and I love the fact that we have only one decision to make - red or white. The food is simple, plainly presented, beautifully cooked and takes in seven courses. The enigmatic, willowy waitress and co-owner then presents a bill so small I almost cry in gratitude and have to force myself not to leave a large gratuity.

I’m now going to throw caution to the winds - look there it goes - and actually name a favourite place and its location. There is a wine bar in Soldano that goes by the name of Sacro e Profano. We stumbled across it one day and have been back several times since. Housed in an ancient building with bare brick walls and ceiling, it is presided over by a shy or possibly taciturn wine lover. We order rich reds like Barbera d’Asti , (prosecco for the ladies), and it is served with wonderful plates of free snacks - cold meats, cheeses, foccaccio (wash your mouth out, Timothy!) The second round of drinks brings more delicious delicacies and we eventually stagger out into the night, wondering whether we really require dinner after all.

One thing that surprises us is the infrequency of finding genuine Ligurian cuisine on the menu. The guide books tell us to savour the many dishes enhanced with pesto, with mushrooms and with truffles or to seek out specific local fish and beef favourites. Where? I ask. No reply, I hear. I exaggerate to make a point. Don’t get me wrong , I love the ubiquitous pizza. Forty years at the shrine of Pizza Express where my record of three and a half pizzas and three bottles of Valpolicella still stands, (shared with a mate you understand) makes me something of a fan. And I am getting a taste for coniglio, partially because our local ‘posh’ restaurant always seemed to serve it as the special of the day. I say seemed rather than seems because, sadly, the German owners have now departed amidst lurid tales of infidelity and toy boys.

On such an intriguing note and recognising that I have barely dipped my ciabatta in the olive oil of our wining and dining experiences, I bid you a fond farewell until the next missive. We’re off to Liguria via Marseille. What’s the French for bouillibaisse?

Let's try an Italian w(h)ine

You’ve had a guided tour of the house and your initial stroll around the village. What shall we do now? First I need to resolve a couple of issues. I’ve mentioned my son, en passant, a couple of times and one eager reader asks if he’s visited our house or was it just his lucky sister. No worries as some Australians seem to say. Son and possible heir has enjoyed the delights of our Ligurian abode on more than one occasion with a myriad variety of friends. His sister too has used mi casa as a base for sneaky forays across the border – she’s bilingual you know but responding well to treatment. Daughter has also enjoyed careering down steep, snowclad inclines both waving sticks and wearing them. She calls it skiing and indulges herself at Limone, no more than a hop, step and broken ankle from our place.

You must also have been worrying yourselves silly over the undoubtedly attractive but hideously recalcitrant ivy that completely covered the facade of our house. You may recall that it had infiltrated the sanitation piping of the property with catastrophic consequences. It had to go. For several days I attempted leaning out of various windows and attacking the ivy with saws and scissors. After slightly less than a week I had successfully removed approximately 1% of the offending foliage. It was time to hand over to a higher power. Our local mentor and all round good egg, Vittorio, promised to have solved the problem prior to our next visit. Call me naive if you will, (was it really necessary to shout out like that?), but trusting is my middle name, fortunately tempered by my double-barrelled surname, No-One. True to his word, when next we came, the ivy was gone. A little later so was most of my life’s savings. Apparently one of those extendable scaffolding contraptions that sit in the rear of custom made vehicles had to be utilised. The cost was sufficient to relieve poverty in one of East Africa’s smaller nations. I’m still in therapy but making progress.

So what shall we do today? I know, we’ll have a barbeque on the terrace. We’ll need wine and lots of it if I’m in charge of the cooking. Where shall we get it? On one of our first forays we tried a wine wholesaler in Camporosso. Now here’s a funny thing. In the UK if you buy a bottle of wine and it costs X, then a case of, say, twelve bottles, will cost less than 12 x X. It’s called quantity discount. So I asked how much the Rossesse di Dolceaqua was. Seven euros. And if I buy twelve bottles? The sales assistant didn’t understand the question. I tried again. Eventually it became clear that even if I bought the entire stock it would cost me 7 euros a bottle. (This lack of incentive to spend more seems endemic to the Italian psyche, Having stayed in a hotel for a couple of nights during an early reccee, I enquire what the rate would be if we stayed for a week on our next visit. I was greeted with a look of total bafflement. You know the answer – seven times the nightly rate. Weird or what?) We continued our wine search with a visit to Gajaudo, a wine seller to the North of Isolabona. Here, at least, we were encouraged to sample some of their wares. Having decided on some Vermentino, (‘for the ladies’ as those Aussies would say), and some Rossesse, I risked scraping the bottom of the barrel (geddit?) and grabbed a few bottles of their vino da tavola. A snip at something like 5 euros, when a euro knew its subservient role to the British pound, It was surprisingly robust and merited another trip some weeks later.

But what’s this, a Lidl has opened in Vallecrosia? Shurely shome mishtake? We checked it out. Actually its perfect for non-foods – loo rolls, kitchen foil and the like. Expect low prices but don’t expect big name brands. The wine section was really scary. Not a single bottle over 4 euros and most around 2. No local stuff but the ubiquitous Pinot Grigio and lots of Sicilian red. We’ve tried a couple and no complaints as you get what you pay for. But if you’re prepared to be disloyal to Liguria, there’s a wine seller at the Ventimiglia market who specialises in the wines of Piemonte. Barbera d’Alba is my current favourite. Which reminds me. There’s a wine bar we’ve fallen in love with that specialises in… but wait a minute we’re late for the barby and there’s food to buy. See you next week.

what's the Italian for 'a French croissant please'?

Oh, hi there, thanks for popping by. Well if you stayed awake during the guided tour of my Italian home, are you up for some fresh air and a walk round the village? I’ve got to be a little careful as I don’t want you to work out which village it is. ‘No names, no pack drill’, as someone used to say.

Our first stop is Mrs. Bun the Baker ‘Due croissant, per favore – una crema e una naturale’. Mrs Bun is not always the most cheerful of people – could it be she agonises over the poor quality of Italian croissants compared to their French cousins, less than an hour’s drive away? No, I didn’t think so. A visit to the bakers is occasionally enlivened by the presence of Mrs B’s very part-time assistant – a pretty young lady who, if I understand her correctly, is studying English at university. If this is indeed the case, she should ask for her money back! One day a week the baker is closed, so off we trot to the little grocery store where bread and pastries can sometimes be found. If the bakery is Sainsbury’s, (I exaggerate to make a point), the grocery store is Morrisons, evidenced most clearly by the female staff smoking on the step outside the shop at every available opportunity.

My favourite shop, however, is the, I suppose Americans would call it a general store, but who’s asking them? This shop is run by a husband and wife team and, in terms of what you can buy, equates to Harrods. Say you’re planning a barbeque party. (Go on say it.) You suddenly realise at 7pm that you haven’t got any charcoal, beer, an adaptor for your hairdryer, a pair of shoes (you want to look nice for the guests) and insect repellent. No problem – all available at the general store. I once asked for a small block of wood, (you don’t need to know), and was presented with three to choose from. ‘No charge’, the wife said, in far better English than my Italian, ‘it is a gift.’ ‘If it’s a gift’ I responded, ‘shouldn’t you wrap it in pretty paper?’ They now make sure they can summon help quickly whenever I come in.

Next in the village we arrive at an estate agent, but I refuse to give it the oxygen of free publicity, as one of its employees is an incompetent charlatan, so we shall hurry by. We also boast a post office and a pharmacy. The former takes my money when I pay council and refuse taxes. I’d like to refuse taxes but as they are so reasonable compared with UK equivalents, I’m not really complaining. I’ve only recently paid my first visit to the pharmacy but realised immediately that my infatuation for the baker’s assistant may have been misplaced. An English-speaking pharmacist with a philosophical view of life may steal my heart; my wife, however, has suggested that I dream on.

The village is far from bereft of places to eat and drink. We wouldn’t be based there if
that was the case. Such is the range of quality, service, scurrilous gossip opportunities and hilarious anecdotes that ‘I could dine out on that one’ will be the subject of my next blog. (can you contain your excitement?)

Being Italy, we have not one but two churches. Also, being Italy, attendance is sporadic to say the least. Our first visit to the main church happened to coincide with the first visit of the new parish priest – the church was pleasantly full. The following week – about twenty of us. The highlight is the annual procession from one church to the other in honour of a particular saint – lot of people, a marching band, precarious carrying of an ornate, heavy-looking statue, a sense of community.

Well we’ve had a stroll around. We’ve enjoyed the balmy weather, the impressive mountain backdrop, the steep steps, the wild feline population, (no, not the pharmacist) the centro storico and the friendly ‘buona sera’ greeting to all we meet. It’s time for a drink. Where shall we imbibe? I know, we’ll go to …ah but that’s the next blog’s theme. See you then.

'step right up, see the main attraction'

Let’s take a stroll around our new Italian home. Heavy wooden front door, (must get the wife to restain it), leads straight into our brand new bright yellow kitchen. Take a left through the brick archway into the living room, tastefully decorated in surround – sound brick. (There’s an awful lot of brickwork in this house, ceilings as well as walls – exposed, partially exposed, covered). The open fireplace boasts an impressive Muriel-covered chimney breast, as my first boss would have called it. The mural featuring a tree, a snake, and a boat on the sea is from the Naïve School of art, in other words it’s rubbish and we love it. Hang on to the thick rope banister as we climb high brick steps to the first floor or primo piano as we say in the trade. Sharp right and we face bathroom number one – no exterior wall or window but plenty of condensation. Right again and a large wooden-floored (more stain please, wife) bedroom greets us. ‘Buon giorno’ we reply as we take in the useful storage/boiler room stage left and the overwhelming mountain views from the stage right window/. Now we retrace our steps to the top of the stairs and turn left, hoping not to hit our heads on the overhanging, yes you’ve guessed it, brickwork. A pleasant, whiter-walled curving into a white ceilinged room faces us. We’re told it’s a second bedroom but no one tells us what to do, (apart from the children and any client kind enough to retain my services), so it’s a second living room, with a sofa bed. Floor to ceiling window with superb view – same mountains.

As we leave this room you remind me to tell you the story behind the artwork on the walls. Another time, perhaps. Which way? At the back of the room brick steps lead up to a second bathroom, ideal for those of restricted growth. Turn left, however, and we climb one step into what might as well be a different house. In fact it was a different house, so what’s your problem? This part of the property is modern and gleaming with tiled floors and not a brick in sight. The first room is the second bedroom, bright and spacious and, oh look, there’s those mountains again. Of this room is what some people call a ‘wet room’ which means you have to be careful with the shower curtain or you get soggy loo rolls. Now we climb some crisp white-tiled stairs to …look I’m going to get a little emotional now, ok? At the top is a sweet little room that would make a lovely little study for me. Picture me tapping away at my blog, my great first novel and deploying my brand new powerful telescope to focus in on, well I never, are those mountains? Now picture wifey loading the washing machine, hanging items on a thoroughbred clotheshorse and dashing away with a smoothing iron. I’m now one hundred and twenty seven years old and never had my own study but I must confess I do look attractive in my clean, pressed holiday attire.

We now leave the study, sorry utility room, and cross a little corridor to the extremely useful second storage room, the one the nasty grown-up property developer seller tried to keep from us. What do you mean this could be my study/? It’s dark, it has no windows, it’s…oh, forget it but I know you meant well. If we follow the corridor to the right it ascends some stairs to another property, mysteriously empty. To the left, then sharp right we follow the corridor to a door that leads on to an alley. It is the front door at the back of the house, three floors higher than the other front door and many yards to the left (or right depending where you’re facing).

This completes our tour. Thank you for being an attentive audience. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have. I do this work in a voluntary capacity but if you wish to show your appreciation in any way…
Next time – the world outside, its people, its dramas, its time I had lunch.

what's that smell?

Apologies to my loyal readers, all three of you, for this blog’s delay. Been to Liguria, with a pleasant side trip to Piemonte, (subject of a future blog?).

Where were we? Ah yes, we are now the official owners of our very own home in Liguria. We plan the first visit when we will be ‘a casa’. Concerned that the Italian estate agent hasn’t confirmed safe delivery of out Ikean furniture, I telephone her. ‘Didn’t I send you an email?’ ‘No, ‘cos you’re rubbish’. We book the ferry. Our new best friend Vittorio telephones ‘When you coming down?’ ‘On Tuesday’ I reply. An ominous silence. Eventually he splutters ‘No you can’t come down’. ‘Why not?’ ‘Because your ‘ouse is full of, how can I say this, of sh**’ ‘WHAT? Vittorio explains that the lovely ivy entirely covering the outside of the house has been busily taking up residence in the sanitation piping, (How did it get a mortgage?), with disastrous results. To cut the cr**, we postpone our visit for a week as Vittorio assures me he will solve the problem by then.

Some time later…we set off in a car loaded to the gunnels (whatever they are) with all the paraphernalia that turns a house into a home (cue strings and introduce Dionne Warwick).
We belt through France with one night’s stop at a delightful auberge and a French hostess with a sense of humour.(surely shome mishtake?) In some trepidation we arrive at our new home. Vittorio is on his hands and knees scouring the kitchen floor with sand as a faint smell of je ne sais quoi lingers in the air. Actually we are surprised and relieved at the state of the house. Over a drink with Vittorio at our nearest bar/restaurant, he tells us that the ivy has to go or the problem will return. He adds to our woes by informing us that the local council has decided that the footpath outside the house must be dug up, the pipes replaced and the cost is down to us. Oh what a tangled web we weave when England’s shores we attempt to leave.

I spend the next few days hacking away at bits of ivy, but as It has climbed three storeys high, I make practically no impression but would do so on the ground if I leaned any further out of the window. Vittorio will solve the problem by hiring a man with a crane and as I contemplate an Italian bank robbery, he tells us that one problem has gone away. Apparently the man from the council has listened with sympathy to the argument that we have only just bought the property and were not responsible for growing the ivy. He has said he will return for a further inspection ‘with one eye open and one eye closed’. I ask Vittorio what the hell that means. He explains that the inspection will convince the council man the ivy problem under the public footpath is the council’s responsibility. ‘Why would he do that?’ naively I ask. ‘Because you will give him a money-stuffed envelope’ is the reply. I love abroad, don’t you?

I haven’t mentioned the kitchen. We didn’t have one. A long drive, an impressive showroom, some hard negotiation and we buy an attractive traditional style in contemporary canary yellow for little more than the original asking price. Actually we’d ordered this on a previous trip but I forgot to mention it. It is fitted on this visit and we’re very pleased. We put a great deal of work into making the house habitable or I should say my wife does while I spend many a long hour checking that Ikea flatpacks have all the right number of screws, nails, bolts etc before getting her to assemble them.

We take time out to visit the village’s one upmarket restaurant. Newly taken over by a youngish German couple, they impress with a speciality starter – cheese and honey melting on a hot stone – yum, yum. Rabbit features strongly on the menu too and the house red is so good and so reasonably priced that we don’t bother with the wine list. Which is probably why they soon withdraw it. C’est la vie say the old folks; it only goes to show you never can tell.

It’s about time I started talking about the village and its inhabitants but that will have to wait for the next exciting instalment I keep mentioning my son, don’t I?

Till the next time...

keep going, then turn left

It’s contract-signing time and we’re driving down. I say we but wife does the driving while I assume the mantle of the far heavier navigating responsibility. (I don’t drive as I take the drinking part of ‘drink driving’ very seriously. I did once take a driving test but as I calculated it would be safer to hit a stationary car on my left rather than one moving towards me on my right, my tendency to commandeer the pavement robbed me of vital points) We make a relatively early start as we’re only stopping one night en route. Arriving at Dover without mishap, we take the Sea France ferry to Calais – eat your heart out, Eurotunnel – and having enjoyed an overpriced and over-caloried breakfast, hit the motorway with a vengeance. By 6pm we’re at Nuits St. George and half an hour later checking into a pleasant little hotel in Beaune. We’ve covered 480 miles and thrown a substantial number of euros into motorway baskets. Superb meal but surely the wine could be cheaper – I can see the raw material growing outside the window.

By 6pm the following day we’re at our destination. We’ve covered 915 miles. I’ve arranged to meet the owner of charming apartment in a pretty square in Dolceaqua. I don’t, however, know what she looks like and the square is packed with people enjoying a children’s choir. Having unsuccessfully propositioned several women of undoubted probity, I am rescued by the lady herself. A drink at a nearby café is suggested and I retrieve wife from the car.
Dolceaqua is picturesque and the apartment high up in the centro storico. (who says I don’t speak the lingo?). We dine and sup well that evening, particularly enjoying the local Rossesse di Dolceaqua, reputedly a favourite wine of Napoleon, presumably Bonaparte rather than Solo.

The next day we meet up with our new best friend, Vittorio, and after a delightful lunch in San Remo, where we are joined by Eliana, the local representative of the UK –based estate agency and, perhaps, the most helpful, attentive individual we have ever met, we walk towards destiny and the notario’s office. (Refer to my first two blogs, dated 20th and 28th July for a fascinating account of this meeting.)

Now we have an official contract. The house is ours. How do we celebrate? What about a trip to Genoa and the wonders of Ikea! I hate shopping. I hate shopping for anything. Wife loves shopping. Wife loves shopping for practically anything. Do you see a potential problem here? After a long and tedious motorway journey, we see Ikea but we can’t get to it. Tempers fray a little but after a couple more circuits of industrial Genoa we are there. (Sometime later) Having ordered beds, sofas, wardrobes, tables and a myriad variety of other items, we linger a little longer to enjoy a hot Ikean beverage. Idly I peruse the rather lengthy receipt. It doesn’t take even me long to realise that the young assistant, (Italian perfect, English rubbish), has got significant elements of our order wrong. As the entire order is to be delivered to the house in our absence in a month’s time, can you imagine the drama of getting the wrong items replaced when we do turn up? Well can you? We track down the assistant and point out the error of his ways.

A day or two later it’s time to go home. But now we have two homes. We’ve enjoyed strolling round our Italian property. We’ve arranged for the Italy-based estate agent to ensure safe delivery of the Ikea order and to let us know when it happens. Then we can plan our first stay under our own roof. The journey back is uneventful and we even manage to achieve some non-motorway driving. By 10 pm the next day we’re home, warmly greeted by cat, post, telephone messages and email. Our Golf has done us proud and there’s a total of nearly 2,800 extra miles on the clock.
Does the furniture arrive? Are we informed? When will son get a proper mention? Didn’t I tell you not to mention ivy? Tune in again next week? No. We’re off to Italy!

who put 'ur' in liguria?

We’re back in England. (Don’t the raindrops look pretty as the wind smashes them against the window?) Our reckonitre, reconoitere, wrecknoitre, reconnaissance trip to Liguria is judged a success. We love the area, the prospect of cheap flights, the manageable car journey. And we’ve seen a house we all like. It’s too big, too expensive, too old but, hey, you only live once, unless it’s next time that I come back as a sophisticated Greek god with a 12 handicap.

The house in question came via an Italian estate agent based in the UK who splits commission with the relevant agency in Italy. (This is an advertisement-free blog but if you’re looking for a home in Italy, you’d probably google ‘homes in Italy’ wouldn’t you.) My loving wife suggests I put in a really low offer and see the reaction. I do just that and to shorten a long story, eventually agree a figure nearer my offer than the original asking price. If I’d known what was to come, I would have cancelled my glee.

It is time for another visit and somewhere nearer the house to stay. There’s one hotel in the chosen village. (Look I’m not going to mention the village’s name so that when I eventually chat about internecine bakery wars and the like, I won’t risk a firebombed car – and there’s a story I will be telling!). The hotel is rather bland but boasts both a magnificent view down the valley to the sea and a manager who’s a better cook than hostess. We are to meet the vendor who, we understand, has used the house as a holiday home, at the Italian estate agency. That’s not the Italian estate agent based in the UK – oh, do keep up! The vendor is there, the estate agent is there and a jean-suited, striking-looking individual with shoulder length grey hair. He speaks excellent English and why not, as he is the vendor’s translator and ‘gofer’. After preliminary chat we decide to walk to the house. The vendor appears not to know the way. Funny? At the house we have the opportunity to reacquaint ourselves with all the rooms, which spread themselves over three floors. At the top level there’s a whispered conversation between vendor and estate agent. Later she tells us that the vendor was hoping she hadn’t mentioned a large storeroom as part of the property as he was planning to sell it off separately to the next-door apartment. (I neither like nor trust this man). Wife has taken the opportunity to chat to the gofer, the aged Ringo Starr lookalike whom we’ll call Vittorio. He volunteers to be our helper in Liguria and do we need help! We don’t speak the language and we have to sort out utilities, a new kitchen and a great deal more.

The official visit is over. I shake hands with the vendor, counting my fingers afterwards, and we fix a date for the formal contract signing with the notario.
As we’ve been given a key, my wife and I spend the next couple of days making an inventory of what we need in terms of furniture and furnishings. We discover there’s an Ikea – don’t you just love flatpacks – a two hour drive away in Genoa. It looks like the house is ours but we won’t get excited until the contract is in our hands. We raise a tentative toast at a local hostelry where the litre carafes of red are better and cheaper than a glass at home.

What’s the vendor’s real story? Is it time for us to drive down? Why didn’t daughter come with us? How come we haven’t mentioned the son? Don’t talk to me about ivy.Next week?

Bingo! Sorry, House!

Picture the scene…actually, I’m a day late with this blog so apologies to all my loyal readers, isn’t golf a ridiculous game…we’re in Western Liguria. That’s my wife, daughter and self, slowly falling in love with the area but rapidly not falling in love with terrible properties in attractive surroundings or attractive properties – you get the idea. The last estate agent to take us around, (and believe me she should be the last agent to take anybody anywhere), has shown us three totally unsuitable places but has one more up her sleeve.

The house we’re walking towards is in a pretty village, not ‘postcard pretty, this is where the tourist buses park’ but a real medieval village with real medieval villagers going about their daily lives. In the case of the men this appears to mean sitting outside the local café drinking and playing cards while the women scurry from shop to home laden with fresh pasta. We turn a corner and are walking past a large vine-covered building when the estate agent stops. ‘Here we are’ she announces in her best Brummie Italian accent. (it’s a long story not worth telling). She forces open a large wooden door and we step back in time. The house is over two hundred years old and is built into an original rock face. First impressions are of rough stone walls and ceilings, archways, large shuttered windows and, when the shutters are pulled back, one of the most impressive views I’ve ever seen. We look out across a vine-strewn valley towards the majestic Alps. Peaks and ridges appear to jostle for position like family members fighting to be at the front for the camera. We’re falling in love but

It’s a big but - that’ll do Jenkins Minor. The house is too big for what we need and what we were looking for. It actually consists of two houses knocked together. Effectively the kitchen is non-existent and the place is a tip. We wander outside. Opposite the house, across the narrow lane, is a large terrace with built-in barbecue. We ask to whom it belongs (I did English A level, you know). We’re told it is ours if we buy the house. Oh dear!
Daughter says ‘Buy it’. Wife says she likes it very much. I say tune in again next week.

A proper peep at property

My wife took me out for a drink – summat funny going on – and then demanded, nicely, whether I intended to drift into retirement or do something with my remaining years. As one proposed option was moving house (‘What, further away from the golf course?) I had to think fast. And that’s why we came to be looking for a second home in Italy. That’s not a second home in Italy, rather a second home, comma, in Italy. I can, and frequently do, spend several hours a day at the computer. (Isn’t tetris addictive?). We wanted a low maintenance property, that we could just lock up and forget about. No garden. No land. But where? We’d enjoyed several Italian holidays and liked Tuscany, Umbria, the Amalfi coast, (remind me to tell you the tale of our highway robbery) but I wanted to discover somewhere new and preferably cheap. I gave serious computer time to Calabria and then to Le Marche. Both had attractions in terms of being relatively unspoilt with low prices to match but both were not the easiest places to reach. I won’t detail other negatives, in part because my feet don’t look good in concrete.

Almost by accident I came across a place called Liguria,which I thought was one of those diseases that dared not speak its name. The more I googled, (they can’t touch you for it), the more it appealed. Hugging the coast just the other side of Monaco, it boasted beaches, hillside villages and two local airports, Nice and Genoa. It was also within a one night stopover car journey from Surrey. Time to take my wife out for a drink. The area appealed, particularly as she does all the driving while I work hard at the drinking, sorry map reading.
We gave more thought to what we wanted. Low maintenance was a given and very soon we added - must be in walking distance of a restaurant, bar and shop; must be in a village of Italians as opposed to an Italian village full of Brits; must be an easy drive from the coast. I contacted a few estate agents in Liguria and an Italian estate agent in England. Now it was time to have a look round. We narrowed our initial choice down to eight properties and booked a week’s B and B in a village in Western Liguria. Recently graduated daughter volunteered to join us – anything for a free holiday. Easy jet flight from Gatwick to Nice, (so that’s where they got the name from), picked up the hire car and in under two hours we’re in delightful Apricale.

Over the next few days we try to get to know the area and see our first shortlist of properties. A very mixed bag, almost as mixed as the bag of estate agents. We meet one in a square in Diano Marina. By the time he’s driven me to a dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere, seemingly occupied by the Italian version of the Young Ones, I know most of his sorry life story. Forced to live in this part of Italy by a wife who has subsequently left him, destined to see his favourite football team sink ever lower in the Italian leagues, he glumly accepts the inevitable rejection of the property. Enthusiastically I rejoin wife and daughter who have followed us in the hire car, pausing only to mutter ‘Is there an Italian branch of the Samaritans?’ We are shown two properties by an Italian woman who gives estate agents a bad name. Languid to the point of torpor, supercilious to the height of arrogance, she sneers at our budget and shows us a shoebox masquerading as an apartment and a delightful house in a village abandoned by time and human presence. We’re beginning to feel a little despondent, cheered only by magnificent meals in stunning locations.
Will we return home empty-handed? Can we afford what we are looking for? Are there two c’s in fettuccine? Same time next week! (I’m trying to cut down on exclamation marks)

beginnings and an end

Our search for a dream house in Italy had begun nearly twelve years ago in North West, er, France. I had gone, as a novice golfer (no change there then), with my old mate Andy for a weekend break to Hardelot, twixt Boulogne and Le Touquet. Our non-golfing wives elected to spend the Sunday morning pampering themselves at the hotel as we trudged off in wet French rain to battle another 18 holes. When we met them for lunch they announced that they’d gone shopping instead. I pointed out that the shops were not open on a Sunday. ‘One was’ they chorused. And that’s how, thanks to an enterprising estate agent, we became the proud joint owners of a brand new little house, a nine iron’s drive from the nearest golf course.

We enjoyed five years of short breaks and longer holidays at Hardelot, delighted that, via Eurotunnel, on a good day we were door to door in less than four hours. On the not so good days, Eurotunnel was generous in its issue of free tickets, which may have contributed to its current parlous financial state. We had lots of good days - strolling into Hardelot village to get the morning croissants, checking out local restaurants, visiting nearby towns and losing lots of golf balls at the two super golf courses.

We found one wonderful restaurant on the outskirts of Le Touquet and when my wife’s sister and husband joined us for a few days, decided to share it with them.
Ensuring that we could all sample the fine wines – amazing value those days – I booked a taxi. The only one available was based in the next village. It duly arrived and I made the mistake of sitting upfront with the driver. Not having enough French to negotiate the price in advance, I sat with ever increasing alarm as I watched the taxi meter whizzing round as though powered by a demented hamster. By the time we got to the restaurant on the far side of Le Touquet, our journey had cost us somewhat more than our trip from Surrey to France. The others may have enjoyed the meal; all I could think of was the return taxi journey. You may think it was my imagination but I swear that the taxi driver’s village showed a degree of prosperity after that evening that it had never shown before.

We had often talked about having a holiday home and Hardelot had provided an easy solution. After five years, however, we had grown tired of the escalating Eurotunnel and golf costs, fed up with the same dismal weather experienced back home and, to be honest, somewhat bored with the local restaurants and attractions.
Luckily our joint homeowners felt the same and we decided to sell. Having been told that French property did not increase in value we were delighted to make a profit when our next door neighbours decided they wanted our house too. We were less than chuffed when they made it clear that they didn’t want to buy the house contents and decidedly miffed at the offer made by a contents-buying company. Eventually my wife and I offered Andy and his wife half that offer and carted the entire contents home to England.

It had taken another four years to get us to that notario’s office in Liguria and now it looked as though we were back to square one. Step forward please, Vittorio, the translator. In heavily accented English, he asked if it would be permissible for him to hold the cash until the contract was signed, at which time he would hand it over to the venal vendors. With one bound we were free. We agreed with alacrity, the vendors were persuaded to re-enter the room and the notario made his imposing entrance. A few minutes later the deed was done, the notario pocketed a handful of our cash, (the Italian way as we were discover over the coming weeks!) and the house was ours.

But why had we chosen Liguria when I’d never even heard of it? Why the one house and not the other seven we looked at? And why had our costs only just begun? Same time, same place, next week?

Buying our dream home in Italy - falling at the last hurdle?

We are sitting in the notario's office. There's a cast of thousands, well at least seven of us. The good guys comprise my wife, our Italian estate agent and my good self. The baddies are represented by the vendors, (a couple of unscrupulous Italian property speculators) and their estate agent - incompetence personified. In whose camp the interpreter sits, (imagine an elderly Ringo Starr still convinced he's in the first flush of youth), only time will tell.

We await the arrival of the notario but first there is some business to be done. As we have negotaited hard on the asking price, the vendors have insisted on a third of the money in cash. It sits bulgingly in my tatty briefcase. The vendors, through the interpreter whom we will call Vittorio, suggest I hand over the money before the notario makes his grand entrance. I decline, explaining that if I hand it over before the contract is signed, they can walk away substantially richer and still owning the property. I suggest giving them the money after the contract is signed. The vendors go ballistic, rising to their feet and, as they storm from the room, revealing an hitherto unsuspected knowledge of English as they declare in unequivocal terms that the sale is off.

There is a stunned silence from those who remain. Are the agents mourning lost commission? Is Vittorio suddenly redundant? Have my wife and I seen our dream Italian home snatched away from us at the last moment?

Tune in again next week and all, or nearly all, will be revealed.