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?