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THE story so far . . . after a disappointing series of viewings with a number of Normandy-based estate agents, by chance Peter Clayton and his wife spotted a faded “A Vendre” sign nailed to the front door of an imposing house overlooking the village square in St Maurice-Bocage.
Armed with the telephone number of the notaire in charge of its disposal and a selection of photographs, they caught their ferry home, hopeful they had found their Normandy gem. . .
NINE o’clock Monday morning and I was on the phone to the notaire. Although the voice at the other end would not connect me with “Le Maitre” himself, in passable English she asked for my email address and promised to send, tout de suite, information about the house.
As good as her word, three days and six menacing phone calls later, the email came through. The property was available at a “non-flexible price”, plus fees, taxes and the cost of several good lunches for the notaire and his staff, equating to another 12 per cent of the asking price. Alongside the financial information came a carefully-crafted description of the property: “a non-fitted kitchen, four chambres (windows need replacing), a water room, a landing with damp wall (sometimes going black because of charcoal up the chimney)”, etc, etc. No doubt about it, the writer had been thoroughly trained in the use of evocative sales prose.
Undaunted by the description, I emailed back to express my continued interest in the property and suggested I made a flying visit the following week to inspect the rotten windows and damp black walls.
At this stage, the jungle that was described as an attractive quarter-acre garden was the least of my concerns. An appointment was fixed and after a restless night on a reclining seat in the ferry’s designated snorers’ lounge, I drove on to the Cherbourg quayside at 6.30am local time to be greeted by a howling autumn wind, torrential rain and pitch darkness. “Bienvenue – Welcome to France” flashed an ironic neon sign through the gloom.
Fortified and uplifted by a couple of hours in a cafe on the outskirts of town, I arrived at our potential Normandy gem a few minutes before nine and waited in the rain for the notaire. As the church clock struck the hour, Le Maitre arrived and opened the front door with a subtle, well-aimed kick to the bottom panel.
An hour later, I emerged from the house with cautious enthusiasm, telling the very patient notaire that I would be taking things a step further by asking a professional builder to inspect the place on my behalf.
With a few hours to spare before heading back to the ferry, I made a surprise visit to unburden my experiences of the morning upon some English friends who had settled near Ste-Mere-Eglise.
They generously armed me with a list of telephone numbers and email addresses of local artisans who had assisted them in their own restoration project two years previously.
They also reassured me that my quest for a French property really was quite sensible and not necessarily the direct result of a mid-life crisis.
With confidence restored I boarded P&O’s Pride of Cherbourg and dreamed fitfully, convinced we had found our Normandy gem . . .