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)