Monday, October 03, 2005
Another very long week and only time to catch up now.
Last Saturday – 24 September – we visited a property fair in Paris, and despite meeting many agents keen to sell (and in one instance to ply us with Norman specialities tarte aux pommes and Calvados) did not see any actual houses which interested us. We did however invest in the latest issue of our favourite house magazine, which we studied in minute detail on and off during Sunday, before and after eating an excellent poule au pot cooked by N.
We divided the properties which interested us into three distinct areas: Normandy, the Loire and Burgundy, drew up three separate lists and decided to make three separate trips, with a view to arriving at each agent in turn and asking to visit the house(s) in question.
The largest number of houses was in Normandy, so we set off the following morning in a westerly direction. Rule Number One – while house hunting in France, note that the majority of property agents are closed on Mondays. We stopped for lunch in Evreux, more to see what it was like than because there was a likely agence there, and after having found two or three in various villages closed, arrived at the one in the village of Conches-en-Ouche which was open on Monday afternoons. We asked to view the house we were interested in – a large three-storey house with white gables – and made an appointment for the following morning at 10.00 am, to see that and another one-storey Norman longère which the woman at the agence (called Sandrine) thought might suit us.
After a visit to a very interesting church and walk round the ruins of an eleventh century castle, there was no more we could do except find a hotel for the night – not easy as some of these also appeared to close on Mondays – so we stayed in Conches where the only restaurant open was a crèperie serving very good Norman cider but extremely salty crèpes.
The next morning we met the agent himself, and followed his car some 15 kms to the largish village where the house was. We were immediately impressed by the fact that it had a market place, several shops, church and school, and had already ascertained that it was on a bus route between two larger towns with stations. We fell in love with the house itself: late nineteenth century, beams, gables, a sun veranda, more rooms than we could afterwards remember on three floors, a beautiful entrance hall plus two staircases, French windows, lovely white painted doors and panelling and a big open fireplace. We had sometime previously drawn up a check-list of what we required in a house and this one ticked all the boxes. Outside a wall round the entire property enclosed four or five outbuildings, including two garages (accessible from the road behind) a wine cellar, an abandoned vegetable garden, and a recording studio! Our agent was very thorough, and would not rest until he was sure we had memorised everything. Opinions differed as to the amount of time it had been on the market, but we were told one other couple was interested, and were planning to bring an architect from Paris.
We then visited the next house, very different; a one-storey former farmhouse, very isolated, which I was anxious to see simply because it was typical of so many of the houses we had noted in the house magazines over the previous months. It was very dark, partly because of the small windows and partly because of the dark wood, and immaculately over-decorated. I didn't think it would suit my light pine furniture, and we felt that it confirmed our preference for the first house, which we were by then referring to as "The White House", even though N said he did not like the George Bush connection.
On to Bernay, where the agence was still closed, so we gave up and had lunch in another crèperie (less salt; still excellent cider) By this time it was raining again; we were beginning to get used to this, along with the views of timber-framed buildings, medieval churches, apple trees, white cows and pink hydrangeas. We stopped at the next agence at l'Aigle, where a helpful lady took us in her car to see another longère, just as isolated as the first, but with barns, a garage and many apple and pear trees, chickens, pigeons and rabbits. She showed us the outside of two others, insisting that they were not far from l'Aigle, and I tried to visualise myself cycling in and out – in vain as the road was very large and busy and uphill, and it was raining very hard. As before, the house was dark and would not have suited my furniture, and the White House seemed more and more the better choice.
We decided to call it a day, bought a copy of Logis de France, found what looked like an excellent hotel at Verneuil-sur-Avre and set off. It was an excellent hotel, in a very distinguished square with a pretty church, and we decided to eat in the hotel restaurant. The temperature seemed to have dropped even further, and having left Paris the day before with bare legs under my linen skirt, I had no choice but to go and buy a pair of tights. Dinner lived up to expectations, three beautifully prepared courses for 15 euros per person.
On Wednesday the sky was blue again and the square looked even better, and we set off for Longny, by now knowing that the first question to ask about potential houses was whether or not they were isolated. By this time, N, who had been much taken with Verneuil-sur-Avre, was maintaining that one of the main advantages of the White House was its proximity to Verneuil-sur-Avre; in addition to ease of getting to and from Paris, and the Channel coast.
The very business-like lady in the agency at Longny told us that the house we were interested in was attached to another house, in a hamlet with no shops, and with a right of way across the front, so we knew straight away there was no point in investigating further.
We decided to go back to Paris, but finding ourselves in the market place, decided to do some shopping first. I bought fruit and vegetables, and exchanged in some witty repartee with the lady at the cheese van, while purchasing some very fierce Brie.
On the way home we had our least memorable meal; lunch at an Autoroute café, and discussed making an offer for The White House. We were agreed on offering a figure some way below the asking price; I favoured an even lower figure than N, on the grounds that we would then have more flexibility and bargaining power. Once back at Saint-Denis we found the e-mail address of the agence in Conches (with some difficulty) and I made the offer, simply phrased, at the lower figure.
Last Saturday – 24 September – we visited a property fair in Paris, and despite meeting many agents keen to sell (and in one instance to ply us with Norman specialities tarte aux pommes and Calvados) did not see any actual houses which interested us. We did however invest in the latest issue of our favourite house magazine, which we studied in minute detail on and off during Sunday, before and after eating an excellent poule au pot cooked by N.
We divided the properties which interested us into three distinct areas: Normandy, the Loire and Burgundy, drew up three separate lists and decided to make three separate trips, with a view to arriving at each agent in turn and asking to visit the house(s) in question.
The largest number of houses was in Normandy, so we set off the following morning in a westerly direction. Rule Number One – while house hunting in France, note that the majority of property agents are closed on Mondays. We stopped for lunch in Evreux, more to see what it was like than because there was a likely agence there, and after having found two or three in various villages closed, arrived at the one in the village of Conches-en-Ouche which was open on Monday afternoons. We asked to view the house we were interested in – a large three-storey house with white gables – and made an appointment for the following morning at 10.00 am, to see that and another one-storey Norman longère which the woman at the agence (called Sandrine) thought might suit us.
After a visit to a very interesting church and walk round the ruins of an eleventh century castle, there was no more we could do except find a hotel for the night – not easy as some of these also appeared to close on Mondays – so we stayed in Conches where the only restaurant open was a crèperie serving very good Norman cider but extremely salty crèpes.
The next morning we met the agent himself, and followed his car some 15 kms to the largish village where the house was. We were immediately impressed by the fact that it had a market place, several shops, church and school, and had already ascertained that it was on a bus route between two larger towns with stations. We fell in love with the house itself: late nineteenth century, beams, gables, a sun veranda, more rooms than we could afterwards remember on three floors, a beautiful entrance hall plus two staircases, French windows, lovely white painted doors and panelling and a big open fireplace. We had sometime previously drawn up a check-list of what we required in a house and this one ticked all the boxes. Outside a wall round the entire property enclosed four or five outbuildings, including two garages (accessible from the road behind) a wine cellar, an abandoned vegetable garden, and a recording studio! Our agent was very thorough, and would not rest until he was sure we had memorised everything. Opinions differed as to the amount of time it had been on the market, but we were told one other couple was interested, and were planning to bring an architect from Paris.
We then visited the next house, very different; a one-storey former farmhouse, very isolated, which I was anxious to see simply because it was typical of so many of the houses we had noted in the house magazines over the previous months. It was very dark, partly because of the small windows and partly because of the dark wood, and immaculately over-decorated. I didn't think it would suit my light pine furniture, and we felt that it confirmed our preference for the first house, which we were by then referring to as "The White House", even though N said he did not like the George Bush connection.
On to Bernay, where the agence was still closed, so we gave up and had lunch in another crèperie (less salt; still excellent cider) By this time it was raining again; we were beginning to get used to this, along with the views of timber-framed buildings, medieval churches, apple trees, white cows and pink hydrangeas. We stopped at the next agence at l'Aigle, where a helpful lady took us in her car to see another longère, just as isolated as the first, but with barns, a garage and many apple and pear trees, chickens, pigeons and rabbits. She showed us the outside of two others, insisting that they were not far from l'Aigle, and I tried to visualise myself cycling in and out – in vain as the road was very large and busy and uphill, and it was raining very hard. As before, the house was dark and would not have suited my furniture, and the White House seemed more and more the better choice.
We decided to call it a day, bought a copy of Logis de France, found what looked like an excellent hotel at Verneuil-sur-Avre and set off. It was an excellent hotel, in a very distinguished square with a pretty church, and we decided to eat in the hotel restaurant. The temperature seemed to have dropped even further, and having left Paris the day before with bare legs under my linen skirt, I had no choice but to go and buy a pair of tights. Dinner lived up to expectations, three beautifully prepared courses for 15 euros per person.
On Wednesday the sky was blue again and the square looked even better, and we set off for Longny, by now knowing that the first question to ask about potential houses was whether or not they were isolated. By this time, N, who had been much taken with Verneuil-sur-Avre, was maintaining that one of the main advantages of the White House was its proximity to Verneuil-sur-Avre; in addition to ease of getting to and from Paris, and the Channel coast.
The very business-like lady in the agency at Longny told us that the house we were interested in was attached to another house, in a hamlet with no shops, and with a right of way across the front, so we knew straight away there was no point in investigating further.
We decided to go back to Paris, but finding ourselves in the market place, decided to do some shopping first. I bought fruit and vegetables, and exchanged in some witty repartee with the lady at the cheese van, while purchasing some very fierce Brie.
On the way home we had our least memorable meal; lunch at an Autoroute café, and discussed making an offer for The White House. We were agreed on offering a figure some way below the asking price; I favoured an even lower figure than N, on the grounds that we would then have more flexibility and bargaining power. Once back at Saint-Denis we found the e-mail address of the agence in Conches (with some difficulty) and I made the offer, simply phrased, at the lower figure.
# posted by Chez Katherine @ 4:46 PM 
