6. maître d'œuvres

Like for the station, our first port of call after seeing the school has been my dad. Papa is this über DIY guy to whom constructing a central staircase over three floors is no challenge and who only has to think about a skill or craft (upholstery, marquetry, car mechanics, carpentry, whatever...) to annoyingly master it. Seriously.
So we asked him if he would mind going to see the school before we signed the binding primary contract. We had made an offer and it had been accepted, all we needed now was the assurance that what we were buying was worth every penny and wasn't about to crash down.

It was relief to hear a few days later that, although he had repeatedly called the French-speaking estate agent a useless crook to her face, my dad was happy with the building and the price we offered to pay for it. He then went a few steps further and shortlisted local maîtres d'œuvre (project managers), interviewed them and checked references. He then decided on one and made an appointment.

Our offer was accepted and the date for the completion, the signing of the acte de vente, was set. We had an architect to supervise and organise the renovation. In few weeks the school would be ours and our adventure would begin.

5. back to school

Yesterday, I darkened my karma. I couldn't resist writing an email to the greedy notaire that deals with the sale of the station. Officially it was to withdraw our offer, unofficially it was to unashamedly gloat. Not only have I clearly stated the price we paid for our home (€50k less than what we offered for the station), I also attached a picture of it for good measure (see above). I don't expect a reply, but I revel in the knowledge that she must be kicking herself silly as the station still isn't sold (I checked) and with the present economic downturn, it's likely it won't for a while. Unless its price is substantially reduced. Cue evil laugh.

In the end their greed (either the notaire's or the owners' or both) has been a blessing in disguise. Although we were quite gutted we also had a wedding to finish planning and while Fox went straight back into compiling a new list of viewings I was happy to concentrate on tying up the loose ends for our big day. Two weeks after our civil partnership, we were back in France.

the newlyweds

We had shortlisted three properties: a nunnery, a house by a river and a disused school. The nunnery was the front runner, then came the house by the river for Fox, the school for me. Although it wasn't secluded, I had come round the idea that being in the middle of nowhere would mean poor or no internet connection and no help in case of an emergency. So I was willing to settle for being on the outskirt of a village (as long as the villagers didn't chase us armed with torches).
The nunnery was a big disappointment. Huge cracks split walls in two and although the owner was adamant that an architect assured her it didn't compromise the building, we decided to go with our gut feeling, not to mention our common sense, and passed on it. As for the house by the river, it was just a question of time before the river came lapping at its door, and in my opinion, having a public footpath splitting the land and the house wasn't much of a strong selling point.

The school, however, was something else. From the word go it was just right. Within minutes of walking in its playground €20k was knocked off its price, we had the assured support of the Mairie to turn part of it into a B&B and even a possible list of contacts. The Mayor's deputy didn't even bat an eyelid when I told him we wanted to turn this into a family home. We started the viewing by the two huge classrooms, followed by the schoolmaster's house and finally the garden behind the préau (see below). It was beautiful, spacious, private, quirky with its bell still hanging, albeit perilously. It was just the home we were looking for.
And just like that, belle-maman and beau-papa got their jobs back.

4. the notaire

We drove to the station that Saturday, we had barely slept the night before. Cathy came with us for help and support. We parked the car at the front and waited for the owners to come out. They looked a bit puzzled, looking around before finally asking about the notaire.
"Well she's not coming today, she's on holidays" I said.
"No no, she said she'll come" they said.
I thought they were just confused, the way old people sometimes are, and decided not to pay attention to their obvious lapse in memory and asked for the tour to start. It was just great, huge rooms and high ceilings, beautiful vegetable garden and mature trees. On the down side there was shit everywhere in the garden where what could only be called Noah's ark was wrecking havoc.
As we went around the corner on our way back into the house and up the first floor, a forty something blonde with the smile of a shark about to make a kill trotted towards us. The notaire.
"I thought I would surprise you. Surprise!" she said.
The thought of losing the introductory fee had been enough of a motivation to bring back her arse all the way from Royan plage. From this moment on poor Mr C. had no voice anymore. It went a bit like this:
Him: "The render needs to be redone, it's quite --"
Her: "Not at all! You could sandblast the corner stones and expose the rest of the stones it would be beautiful"
Him: "No, it would look awful"
Her: "Not at all!!! Mr C. really!"
Him: "It would, underneath it's half brick, half stone."

We made an honest offer but they were being greedy and decided to sit it out. My dad had come up with the figure, asserting it wasn't worth more than that. We also asked him run the negotiations on our behalf as we couldn't be objective (we were already assigning jobs, belle-maman making the curtains, beau-papa digging up the garden).
After much waiting we decided to carry on looking. Within days Fox came up with another short list.