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.