7th October 2008
Every evening when we switch on SkyTV, there's a strange sense of confusion. All day we've been experiencing the tranquility of a French mediaeval village, and then, by the flick of a switch, there's Nostradamus saying 'I told you so'. We're apparently nearing the end of the world via the demise of Capitalism. I'm pessimistic enough as it is, but now? Then I look across at him indoors, chuckling over his latest bout of wordplay scenarios and think: is it all in the mind? Is how we live our lives merely the way we choose to think? Take yesterday when we went to nearby Caussade. H needed an eye test. We went through the usual foreign confusion before we understood that we couldn't just go into the French version of Specsavers, wait an hour and then go home with a new pair of specs. First we had to find the ophthalmologist, with me acting as interpreter. It's difficult being asked 'which is brighter, red or green?' when I'm not the one sitting in the chair! But we managed it and, armed with the vital prescription, we were able to walk into the optician shop over the road and order his glasses. The point of all this is: can I change my attitude to that of H by constantly being cheerful, despite all the doommongers on TV? I laughed when H asked if the ophthalmologist was called Mr. Bannister and whether he used to be a teacher - because he has to control the stares and his pupils. Maybe that's what's wrong with me. I need to put sticking plaster over the glasses of my nervous life so as not to make a spectacle of myself! With H by my side, laughter is the best medicine for all the world's ills.
6th October 2008
Every once in a while, amidst the normal daily routine, something happens to disturb our equilibrium. So it was a few months ago. A family emergency demanded our immediate return to the UK. There wasn't a moment to lose, so thankful for my PC, I quicky searched for a budget flight from Toulouse to Birmingham. Nothing until two days time, as it was out of season, so reluctantly I booked EasyJet to Gatwick - that Gd forsaken place. We'd just have to rent a car when we arrived. It wasn't until I told him indoors that we thought: what about Bruno? I rang Gisella who runs a doggie holiday camp near Toulouse, but as luck would have it, she answered from her mobile in Morocco! Oh no. What were we going to do? We had just 2 hours before the plane was due to leave. We tried everyone. Because of Bruno's notoriety, no-one locally was prepared to take him. All the local rescue centre could offer was the number of a kennel we'd never heard of in Montauban. Throwing everything in the car, not forgetting the 'passports, tickets, money' mantra, we raced in the general direction of Montauban. H was worried about the car. 'What's that whine coming from the back?' It was only Bruno. And then, guess what? We got lost. The rain was pelting down, the day was as dark as night, my mobile wouldn't work in the car and we were stuck in the middle of nowhere with the seconds ticking away. Frantically I climbed out into the torrents of rain and, miraculously, my phone suddenly worked. I dialed the kennel. 'Er...venez-vite et me trouver.' Miraculously the man understood my stumbling French and agreed to come and find us, guided by the late-Xmas flashing lights of a nearby shop and my frantic arm-waving at the side of the road. Success! We dropped Bruno, dashed to the airport and just managed to catch the final check-in time with minutes to spare. You know what EasyJet are like. Huge sighs of relief from him. And me, of nervous disposition? As usual every silver lining has a cloud!
How to buy a dream home in France with very little money
Finale.
We shook hands all around.
It seemed that we had bought our dream house.
Let the future begin!
One stroke of good fortune was discovering that the B & B landlady’s husband was a civil engineer. The agent told us that French people don’t usually bother with a survey before purchasing a property, merely doing structural work as and when needed. However, we had been conditioned to seek some sort of survey so were pleased to find an English professional to give our property the once-over before the end of the seven day cooling off period which purchasers are given in France before signing the compromis de vente or to retract after having signed the deed.
‘Just as well we found the house in our first week then,’ responded him indoors to this news. And, of course, he was right. It meant that we could await the engineer’s report and, if all was well, sign the agreement before leaving France. We discovered that house purchase solicitors in France are called notaires, and unlike in England, are disinterested parties to the transaction, i.e. they act for neither the vendor nor the buyer. They seem to act solely for the government, as far as I could see. We learned that the seven day cooling off period runs from the date on which the notaire notifies the potential purchaser of the completed draft deed of sale or gives him a copy in return for a signed receipt. Apparently the deed of sale may not be signed before the expiration of this period.
We needed also to ensure that our compromis agreement contained the following provisions:
identification of the property being sold (well yes!);
a guarantee of the absence of asbestos;
certificates regarding elimination of termites, lead etc.;
the terms of the purchase;
the price and date of payments (‘hah hah,’ from you know who);
the date for taking possession.
During that final seven days in France we waited with baited breath for the engineer’s report. It was hardly life or death, but it felt that way. Dependent on what he found would be our whole future. We weren’t so much buying a house; the house was the catalyst which would give us a new future. Two days before the end of the seven days the engineer arrived with his ten page report. My eyes, long trained to skim-read and summarise wordy university documents, flipped frantically to his final conclusion:
Overall opinion…
‘He wasn’t wearing an overall,’ from him indoors.
‘Shh, I’m trying to read.’
The property offers good, spacious and airy accommodation with good-sized rooms and has a gas central heating system. I found no evidence of any significant defects or shortcomings other than those mentioned in Section F…..
‘F’s a good letter to use for telling us we’ve been stuffed……’ says he. I’ve given up on his laconic sense of humour after nearly forty years of suffering, so I blithely continued reading.
Readily occupiable upon vacant possession.
By now we both fearfully flipped to that ominous Section F, labelled Action:
Dampness in external render needs to be addressed…
Chimneys should be swept and the steel flue liner and access point to the flush fitted insert burner should be checked with the owner.
Need to discover how storm water is disposed of – could not be seen on inspection.
It should be established by the notaire where the responsibilities lie with regard to water escaping from someone else’s property and what the insurance position is.
With some relief I turned to the engineer.
‘So, what does all this mean? Are you saying that in your professional opinion we’re O.K. to sign the compromis de vente?
‘Yes. The points I made under Section F are the normal types of action that purchasers should expect to carry out when buying an older property, but are nothing unusual. I therefore see no reason why you can’t sign the compromis and go ahead with your purchase.’
Hallelujah.
And so we went ahead. The process of buying and selling houses is so different in France, and on reflection I much prefer the French way of doing it. Every time the purchaser needs to sign anything at the notaire’s office, the vendors and the participating estate agents all attend and discuss the situation in the one office. The compromis agreement even included a statement testifying to the absence of such things as termites or asbestos, lead etc. These are all things I probably wouldn’t have thought to ask in the heat of the moment. Whereas in England….everything seems to be handled over the phone and by post, sometimes not meeting the solicitor in person throughout the whole transaction.
Another thing I’m surprised about is that we need to add a special clause to the final sale agreement, effectively altering French final testament laws in leaving the property to a spouse instead of to any surviving children. You live and learn. What was also a particularly nasty shock was the size of the notaire’s fees. At eight percent, this was considerably higher than the one percent charged in England.
‘At least the agent’s fees were already included in the selling price,’ said he, ‘.. so we didn’t need to pay anything to them.’
‘I suppose so,’ grabbing the calculator to work out whether we would shortly be in hock to all and sundry to pay for it all.
Well, tomorrow we return to England. Everything’s been done and signed for. We’ve arranged to sign the final paperwork and pay the final ninety percent when we return in May. Pleased, smug smile of satisfaction. May is the end of the six-month flat rental period in England.
‘Have I been clever or what?’ to no-one in particular
‘No, just smug as usual’.
Pillow throwing time.
End of Extract. Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know by your comments whether you want me to include another one next Sunday.
We shook hands all around.
It seemed that we had bought our dream house.
Let the future begin!
One stroke of good fortune was discovering that the B & B landlady’s husband was a civil engineer. The agent told us that French people don’t usually bother with a survey before purchasing a property, merely doing structural work as and when needed. However, we had been conditioned to seek some sort of survey so were pleased to find an English professional to give our property the once-over before the end of the seven day cooling off period which purchasers are given in France before signing the compromis de vente or to retract after having signed the deed.
‘Just as well we found the house in our first week then,’ responded him indoors to this news. And, of course, he was right. It meant that we could await the engineer’s report and, if all was well, sign the agreement before leaving France. We discovered that house purchase solicitors in France are called notaires, and unlike in England, are disinterested parties to the transaction, i.e. they act for neither the vendor nor the buyer. They seem to act solely for the government, as far as I could see. We learned that the seven day cooling off period runs from the date on which the notaire notifies the potential purchaser of the completed draft deed of sale or gives him a copy in return for a signed receipt. Apparently the deed of sale may not be signed before the expiration of this period.
We needed also to ensure that our compromis agreement contained the following provisions:
identification of the property being sold (well yes!);
a guarantee of the absence of asbestos;
certificates regarding elimination of termites, lead etc.;
the terms of the purchase;
the price and date of payments (‘hah hah,’ from you know who);
the date for taking possession.
During that final seven days in France we waited with baited breath for the engineer’s report. It was hardly life or death, but it felt that way. Dependent on what he found would be our whole future. We weren’t so much buying a house; the house was the catalyst which would give us a new future. Two days before the end of the seven days the engineer arrived with his ten page report. My eyes, long trained to skim-read and summarise wordy university documents, flipped frantically to his final conclusion:
Overall opinion…
‘He wasn’t wearing an overall,’ from him indoors.
‘Shh, I’m trying to read.’
The property offers good, spacious and airy accommodation with good-sized rooms and has a gas central heating system. I found no evidence of any significant defects or shortcomings other than those mentioned in Section F…..
‘F’s a good letter to use for telling us we’ve been stuffed……’ says he. I’ve given up on his laconic sense of humour after nearly forty years of suffering, so I blithely continued reading.
Readily occupiable upon vacant possession.
By now we both fearfully flipped to that ominous Section F, labelled Action:
Dampness in external render needs to be addressed…
Chimneys should be swept and the steel flue liner and access point to the flush fitted insert burner should be checked with the owner.
Need to discover how storm water is disposed of – could not be seen on inspection.
It should be established by the notaire where the responsibilities lie with regard to water escaping from someone else’s property and what the insurance position is.
With some relief I turned to the engineer.
‘So, what does all this mean? Are you saying that in your professional opinion we’re O.K. to sign the compromis de vente?
‘Yes. The points I made under Section F are the normal types of action that purchasers should expect to carry out when buying an older property, but are nothing unusual. I therefore see no reason why you can’t sign the compromis and go ahead with your purchase.’
Hallelujah.
And so we went ahead. The process of buying and selling houses is so different in France, and on reflection I much prefer the French way of doing it. Every time the purchaser needs to sign anything at the notaire’s office, the vendors and the participating estate agents all attend and discuss the situation in the one office. The compromis agreement even included a statement testifying to the absence of such things as termites or asbestos, lead etc. These are all things I probably wouldn’t have thought to ask in the heat of the moment. Whereas in England….everything seems to be handled over the phone and by post, sometimes not meeting the solicitor in person throughout the whole transaction.
Another thing I’m surprised about is that we need to add a special clause to the final sale agreement, effectively altering French final testament laws in leaving the property to a spouse instead of to any surviving children. You live and learn. What was also a particularly nasty shock was the size of the notaire’s fees. At eight percent, this was considerably higher than the one percent charged in England.
‘At least the agent’s fees were already included in the selling price,’ said he, ‘.. so we didn’t need to pay anything to them.’
‘I suppose so,’ grabbing the calculator to work out whether we would shortly be in hock to all and sundry to pay for it all.
Well, tomorrow we return to England. Everything’s been done and signed for. We’ve arranged to sign the final paperwork and pay the final ninety percent when we return in May. Pleased, smug smile of satisfaction. May is the end of the six-month flat rental period in England.
‘Have I been clever or what?’ to no-one in particular
‘No, just smug as usual’.
Pillow throwing time.
End of Extract. Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know by your comments whether you want me to include another one next Sunday.
4th October 2008
Marseille has been voted the European Capital of Culture for 2013. The city is one of the oldest settlements in France, positioned on the Mediterranean waterfront two hours south of us. In its bid, Marseille themed its city as les ateliers de la mediterrannee, the melting pot of the Med. Among its planned celebrations will be the centenary of the birth of Albert Camus, a philosopher who saw Marseilles as the 'gateway to the east'. In these times of multiculturalism and terrorist threats from the east, the judges chose a place which can host the major cultural questions Europe will be called on to address in the future. Immigration, clashes of cultures and religions, gender relations are all top political priorities. Makes me think of our home city of Birmingham in the UK! A walk down Soho Road in Handsworth gives you a flavour of the West Indies, a walk down Ladypool Road with all its balti restaurants and you could be forgiven for thinking you were in Pakistan, or Belgrave Road with its magnificent central Mosque, not to mention the Sikhs and Hindus....the list goes on. And are we better for all this multiculturalism in our cities? In theory it should help to bring all the different faiths of the world together. But in practice? The key word is integration. We must learn to separate culture from religion. Pray at home in private, but on the streets of your chosen city live as the locals do. Then, whether we live in Marseille or Birmingham, we can all live happily together. Hallelujah.
P.S. Don't miss tomorrow's final episode of 'How to buy a dream home in France with little money'.
P.S. Don't miss tomorrow's final episode of 'How to buy a dream home in France with little money'.
3rd October 2008
When did all this media-hype start? There was a time when leaders were elected because of their experience, wisdom, education and knowledge. Think of Winston Churchill and Charles de Gaulle. Today, neither of them would probably have been chosen because of their looks. One was a bulldog, the other a tall, gangling Toby jug. But, without their true, real capabilities, what would have become of us all? So, my message is simple. Whether you're currently living in France, as we do, in the UK, the US or anywhere else in the world: don't choose your leaders by the glossy image fed to you by the media. Delve deep inside to see the essential person beneath. Are they intelligent enough? Educated enough to be able to weigh the balances of conflicting strife around the world and come to a reasoned solution? Personable enough to be able to talk with humility and understanding to those less-fortunate? Clever enough to debate the issues tactfully with leaders from entirely different faiths and backgrounds? And, above all, if you live in a land which is a super-power: would you trust your leader to have the strength not to push that fateful button on the bomb that will annihilate us all! I can do no better than quote Rudyard Kipling:
"If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; ..
If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; ...
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you except the will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
"If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; ..
If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; ...
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you except the will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
2nd October 2008
Living as we do in rural France, we've come to realise that there is a strange conflict. On the one hand France seems a dynamic raring-to-go nation, ready to seize the global initiative. Only yesterday the President, as the EU Chairman, recommended that Europe provide a 300 bn Euro rescue fund to rescue crippled banks across Europe. As the world held its breath on the fate of America’s own $700 billion bank bailout plan, President Sarkozy set up his own emergency meeting for next Saturday. However, nothing runs smoothly and there was the usual scepticism from everyone. To a man, the other EU nations said that their particular country could not and would not issue a blank cheque for all banks, regardless of whether they behave in a responsible manner or not.
So, as usual, modernity versus the usual confusion and bickering everywhere. France denied at first that it had put forward a proposal for a fund at all and then, after admitting that it had done so, denied that it would cost 300 billion. Paris said that the figure had come from the Dutch Government. But officials in The Hague said that they had no idea what the French were talking about.
The usual strife, contention and argument then! What was it Confuscius said long ago? Bring in new people and everyone will think that things are going to turn out better. But in practice? It's like rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic!
So, as usual, modernity versus the usual confusion and bickering everywhere. France denied at first that it had put forward a proposal for a fund at all and then, after admitting that it had done so, denied that it would cost 300 billion. Paris said that the figure had come from the Dutch Government. But officials in The Hague said that they had no idea what the French were talking about.
The usual strife, contention and argument then! What was it Confuscius said long ago? Bring in new people and everyone will think that things are going to turn out better. But in practice? It's like rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic!
1st October 2008
For most men, the only thing that makes French politics interesting at the moment is its first lady, former supermodel Carla Bruni - heiress to the Italian tire manufacturing company CEAT. I don't know exactly what it is about her, but like Princess Diana in her time, she seems to entice paparazzi around the world by her elegance and that indefinable je ne sais quoi. During a state visit to Britain last March, the 40-year-old singer caused a sensation among publishers and television companies who fought to get an interview with her. Her elegant style received rave reviews from fashion stylists who hailed the Dior outfits she donned for the occasion. So, it's understandable that the French President, not wanting to miss a trick, will take the adorable Carla with him on his visit to Quebec this month. M. Sarkozy will attend the annual Canada-European Union summit in Montreal on the 17th and the Summit of the Francophonie - a club of about 50 French-speaking countries - in Quebec City the following day. Meanwhile, Sarkozy's colourful love life and reforming zeal is to be made into a big screen documentary by an American director, although the President does not yet know it apparently! Maybe Nicolas will agree to it in order to climb back in France's popularity polls. And as for Carla? Since her marriage to Nicolas in February, she has released her third pop album called Comme si de rien n'etait (As if nothing had happened). As if, indeed.
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