Deliverance....(remember the banjos?)

Part Three:

Many many more hours on the internet. I did at one point make a tentative offer on a holiday home, more out of desperation than anything else. It was suggested by an agent and dismissed as derisory by the vendor. Hey ho…

To be honest, after the gazumping debacle I’d rather lost heart and had all but given up. I would occasionally look at properties, only this time I had seen the reality and could compare it to the online description….. The best one was a house near the sea, with pictures of a beautiful sea view…about ten miles away in another townland. I did get a certain vicarious pleasure from poking around posh houses I could never hope to enter (I hope I wasn’t tooooo scathing in my assessment of some of the interior décor). I did eventually receive one message, asking if I would be interested in a ruin, lots of character, surrounded by trees but probably in need of demolishing and starting again. I must say I really struggled to convey the concept that I DO NOT WANT TO BUILD!!! I firmly believe that there are more than enough houses in the area and many of them are ghastly. I do not wish to add to this. Eventually one or two properties popped up, just enough to justify another trip. As my mate wasn’t able to put me up this time, I went in search of accommodation. It was just for me, Himself being otherwise engaged. The local B&B’s looked almost reasonable at €30-40 a night, until you checked the smallprint and discovered the single supplement. Suddenly it was €55-70! Multiply that by seven and it turns into a substantial number. Ok, I’m notoriously mean when it comes to accommodation, and as a result have landed up in some notable fleapits, where I have shared rooms with rats, roaches and a stray transvestite among many other things. However I never eat breakfast and resent being charged for it, I also dislike sharing someone’s house, it feels like I’m a kid again trying to sneak in long after curfew having sunk a few illicit ones. There are various hostels etc advertised in the general area, so I attempted to contact these. Every last one had closed down! A sign of the economic times I suppose. I briefly considered buying a tent when I got off the plane and hoping for the best, but England had experienced the wettest April ever, which had segued seamlessly into a soggy May and I didn’t expect any better in Ireland. Then I had a brainwave. Most of the estate agents also do holiday lets. I called one whom I had already spoken to about a house. The fella I spoke to turned out to be he of the collapsing table. I guess I should have realised. Nevertheless I obliged him by mailing him with the details as he said he might be able to help. That was the last I heard. Several days later I texted the ruin man (any port in a storm). Bless him, he called me ten minutes later and mailed me the following day with a cottage up the road from my mates for €100 for the week. My faith was restored. I was almost ready to agree to the ruin on the spot. Having deposited my dog and my van with my daughter in London I set forth. I consciously boycott Ryanair for being moneygrabbing bastards. I have seen them let people past check in with oversized hand luggage, only to stop them at the boarding gate and demand money with menaces or no bag. Aer Lingus for me, they are a bit more forgiving.

I landed and picked up my hire can (sorry, car). My suggestion that they might want to give me a free upgrade to a 4X4 in view of the roads I was headed for got nowhere. They may be regretting that decision when the discover what I did to the suspension…..

Off I trolled, having arranged to meet my ruin man on the way to pick up the keys and do a swift viewing. I followed him and we rolled up at a stately pile (my cottage was round the back). He told me that the pile, having been for sale for some time was now available for €800k, it started at 2.5 million. I declined politely. It seems the owner, a local builder, is somewhat overcommitted on the property front. Then it was time to view the ruin. As we turned up the hill I experienced a sinking feeling, which was entirely justified. Remember the property in the foliage with the wrecked cars? The one in the swamp? Yep, that one! It turned out that it had almost sold a number of times, the price falling with each sale falling through. The land downhill of it could not be proven to be included in the title… so nowhere for the septic tank soakaway to soakaway. It was a dark damp hole in March, it continued, despite the bright sunshine, to be a dark damp hole in May. There’s no polite way of saying ‘I want to run away screaming’ so instead I followed the ruin man inside. The door wasn’t locked, it was so rotten there wasn’t much point. The back room was a couple of inches deep in mud, where the track had become a stream and washed itself inside. There was damp, there was dereliction, there was mould and mildew. There were forgotten family photos pinned to the wall, and a mouldering housecoat on a rotting chair. Creepy? Oh yes!

The ruin man was trying so hard I felt bad about disappointing him. He suggested another property and I agreed to look at it. On the way up the track he pointed to the stable/house I had seen on my last visit and asked if I would prefer that. Looks like that sale hadn’t gone through either. How do you choose between dreadful and hopeless?

The next place had an amazing view, just as well as you wouldn’t want to spend much time looking at the interior. The curtains were closed to deter snoopers and casual thieves (who it seemed had helped themselves to the heating oil anyway, the tank was rolling forlornly in the breeze round the back yard). Ruin man obligingly drew one of the curtains, which immediately fell off the wall, rail and all. After some muttering and swearing it was decided that the bloody thing was knackered and would never go back up. At least he had a sense of humour about it. Thinking about it now, what the hell was I doing driving round the countryside with a strange fella I didn’t know from Adam, going into deserted houses in the middle of nowhere with him???? Hello? Luckily he turned out not to be a crazed serial killer (well, not in my presence anyway).

The following day I planned to head a bit further up the coast and try to find a house I’d seen online. So far so good…. Lovely sunny day, magnificent views. The most bloody godawful roads you could possibly imagine. Vertical climbs, hairpin bends and the surface nothing but a series of loosely connected potholes, with sheer drops at every corner. Now I know I wanted remote, but this was just ridiculous. I encountered a couple of loose cows and their calves on the road. In England this would constitute a minor emergency (although I admit I was probably the only car likely to travel that road that day). Apart from the potential loss of said livestock, cows are known for their seriously bad attitude when they have a calf at foot. With this in mind I pulled up at the next farm gate. The doors to the house were open, but no obvious signs of life. In some trepidation I let myself into the yard (can you hear the banjos???). Eventually I found some fella in the sheep shed squirting something noxious onto the sheep (it’s ok, he had his trousers on). I told him about the cattle. ‘Are they bothering ye?’ he says… ‘’er, no, I just wanted to let you know’…. Awkward silence…. I left rapidly, feeling like a bit of a tit.

Then I hammered the hell out of the suspension.

Needless to say, I completely failed to find the house.

I had two serious prospects lined up, but I wanted to do a recce before doing a formal viewing. Once again I returned to the domain of rottweiler woman. She was on form, and suitably offended that I would turn up at that hour of the afternoon wanting, god help us, to look at somewhere. Still, I got directions and made an appointment for a viewing the following day. After a false start where I took the wrong left and ended up in someone’s front garden, I finally found the correct track. Proceeding with caution due to the height of the undergrowth growing down the middle of the road, I headed for the house. There was another house just beside it, shielded by shrubbery. As I drew past this I glanced over and saw a woman on a lounger, sunbathing….naked. She did a vertical takeoff (I guess she wasn’t expecting visitors) and I parked up, feeling a little sheepish.

At least this place didn’t seem to be in imminent danger of collapse, and it was south facing. Unfortunately it also faced the outhouse and a sheer rock face at quite close quarters.

Next on the list was the real reason for my visit. Another cottage, up a hill, well, on the way up a mountain. I had studied the location on Google streetview and Google earth and I was pretty confident I could find it. I got lost. Twice.

I did eventually get there, and cautiously peered through the windows, expecting an irate face on the other side (there was no sign outside). All was quiet, so I had a good nose round and it looked promising. It also promised a wealth of building work, but crucially, not a total rebuild.

The next day I went to see the house with the naked neighbour. I was shown around by a very nice lady, who kept bumping her head on doors and ceilings (she was very tall… I am very short). That made me wonder about building regs… We had a nice chat and I drove off to my aunt’s for lunch.

While at the aunt’s I looked online for the agent’s number for the other cottage, in doing so I spotted a new addition, so I called that agent as well and arranged a viewing. They sounded very excited. The agent with the cottage (who also happened to be falling off table man) was less excited. The lady I spoke to said she would have to get hold of the key and would call me back. One problem, no mobile signal whatsoever, unless I stand at the end of the pier (I was using a landline, but had to go soon).

My mate’s other half volunteered to accompany me on another recce of the new prospect and the cottage. We were nosing round the cottage when a woman pulled up, looked at us with great suspicion and asked if she could help us. Once I explained myself she was helpfulness itself. Being a neighbour and the keyholder, she was able to show us round. We poked and prodded and asked awkward questions and she took it all with good grace. She did mention she had a missed call, which must have been the agent…

On to the new prospect. We almost didn’t stop. More pine trees, breeze block wall around it, abandoned mobile home in the yard… Further inquiries locally revealed it to be grim and impossible to heat. I cancelled the viewing (and felt bad).

Excited by the potential of the cottage I decided to ask my surveyor (whom I’d never actually met) to come and give the place the once over, just so I knew what I was letting myself in for. I cleared this with the agent (whom I’d never actually met either… well, not the coherent female half of the partnership anyway).

The surveyor turned up, damp meter in hand and proceeded to declare the place ‘wringing’… no surprise there. He did say it wasn’t a total disaster, but there would be work involved. He suggested a figure about 35 percent less than the asking price, but warned me that I would probably be told to ‘feck off’. We got to chatting and he mentioned that he knew of a new build that was just sitting about doing nothing.  He gave us (my mate’s other half had come along for the ride again, complete with enormous dog who always took a huge dump as soon as he got out of the car….) directions which mostly comprised of ‘turn right up the hill and then down the road where Xxxxxx was murdered’… Ok….. Nothing at all creepy about this then…..

The view from this house was spectacular, but boy was it bleak! It was builder’s finish, so lots of render and bare wires. The surveyor was a bit reticent about the price. He said he’d get back to me.

While this was transpiring, I got a call from falling off table man. He asked how it went with the surveyor, and when I said there were issues he went off into a diatribe about how old buildings didn’t have to comply with regulations (no, but the electrics do…?). He was just getting into his stride when, thankfully, the signal cut out. He was kind enough to leave a voicemail though…. Berating me for expecting an old cottage to be habitable and suggesting I looked at modern bungalows instead. Patronise me a bit harder why don’t you????

On the strength of this I arranged to meet the surveyor the following day to discuss the new build. He did look a little sheepish as he told me it was in fact in his name… Some arrangement with the builder… it got more and more complicated. It seemed that the surveyor could get it for me at a knockdown price (subtext: the bastard builder owes me money and has fecked off out of the country?).

In the meantime I was getting texts from ruin man about the cottage, I had asked him if he knew anything about it, as he seemed to know everything about anything. He suggested it was overpriced. No? Really? But the vendors believed it to be worth the asking price (you don’t say). I decided to let it lie awhile.

On returning to my mate’s with the news that the surveyor owned the new build I was greeted with…’Guess what, yer man the surveyor owns the new build!’. They’d had friends round and had been discussing it… So, the surveyor owns the house, along with Mr X the local builder who has a finger in every pie and is heavily into developments in Eastern Europe…. OH SHIT! While I’d been having coffee with the surveyor the talk had turned to investments. I’d mentioned that I’d heard Mr X was into building in Poland or somewhere, and that Himself at home had been offered an opportunity to invest (not necessarily in the same deal). He almost went for it, until someone explained to him that it was a seriously risky (and possibly dodgy) deal. It then transpired that Himself’s financial advisor was under some heavy duty investigation by the fraud squad and the FSA and god knows who else……and it wasn’t entirely unconnected to this scheme. I thought yer man went a bit quiet at that point…..

Once his association with Mr X had been explained to me, I got a bit worried. Mr X owned the stately pile and the cottage I was staying in. When I got in I locked all the doors and spent the night listening for the approaching heavy gang!

I was leaving the next day, and as I prepared to go I heard noises outside. Very glad indeed it was in the light of the morning, I went out to the can (sorry, car) and was greeted by a pair of baying hounds and Heathcliff himself… Mr X come to check up on his property.

I did a bit of quick smiling and nodding and high tailed it out of there as fast as my can could carry me.

I was due to drop in on ruin man, and as I drove, the pieces started to fit together. Over the course of our meeting he kept pushing me towards building….. because…. He’s Mr X’s business partner! And Mr X is perhaps in need of a bit of building work in order to maintain his Overseas lifestyle….

One day I might actually find this house………