Buyer’s Remorse...the final straw.

Buyer’s remorse is common among house buyers, especially if its your first home. After all, a home is typically the most expensive shopping you'll ever do and normally; for the majority of us , the most valuable item we will ever purchase. It involves not only a lot of money, but huge changes that will continue to have consequences for a very, very long time. We all want the fairytale though?

So you’ve made the decision, you’ve got your deposit and are ready for the hunt ! Ready to be a grown up, ready to step into your big boys' shoes and your big girls' pants and embrace a responsible future. And the best feeling of all …is waving goodbye to the sticky-mitted landlord and finally stop throwing money away in rent forever !

if , however, you’re not in a position to buy out right going to the bank in search of a mortgage can be the biggest nail biting hurdle .You turn up for your interview with all your hard earned ( and taxed) cash, show the broker how you manage the extortionate rent in an ever shifting market that's costing  more than a mortgage would… only to be given a smug sneer and told you don’t earn enough! They cannot give you a mortgage because you're forced to spend all your extra money on exorbitant rent? and so on and so on.And do not forget if you’re a hard working, 24/7 self employed grafter, your box is to the left on the way out! what a bunch of bankers !

So, after shoehorning yourself into the restrictive mortgage they’ve offered, the shoe; ail-bait tight, is indeed on the other foot and you become the master of all you purvey. However, many of us here in France have found that our hard earned cash goes further when you explore the market for a fixer upper.Many of us can afford to purchase without a mortgage and still have change! Without the stress of  the bank … we can wave our knotted hankie caps at mortgages … breathe, walk a bit taller,  become the King of our own castle, mortgage free…quite quickly .

Or so you would think! After a few months of signing a million copies of the obligatory paperwork ,you realise that the crown can be quite heavy and the weighty responsibility of a building rests on your shoulders alone.

After you've nestled in, snuggled up and opened the shutters on your property; suddenly the reality of each brick in your strong hold starts to conjure the image of a darker type of fairytale .Your imagination runs riot and you wonder if you have secured a property that will fall down in just a huff or a puff . You start to notice the wear and tear around your many walls: the things that need to be fixed that you didn't know existed. You start to question if that hole was made by a mysterious munch type creature, or is it just rotten and ponder with much Merlot which is worse? After tracking down a chin scratching Artisan, you then realise it’s more costly than you budgeted for and that unique, home owner,  terror creeps icily up your spine .You wonder how you’re going ever finish your renovations in a language that your home-schooled French just won't cover...and  think…bugger…have I been hasty?Was this the right thing to do?And can I pull it off? Worst of all, what if my bravery was a fool's errand and I am indeed the first little pig and have bought a house of straw ?If so, can I afford to return to my native country complete with curly tail between my legs?As fixer-uppers in France are so reasonably priced and renovations so lengthy and expensive, often, the answer is no.If you came from further afield than Europe and have hauled all your earthly treasures over the seven deadly seas, the expense of taking them back can be a deal breaker!… to ship or not to ship that is indeed a huge question. 

When you’re viewing properties, your dreams and aspirations are in the forefront of your creative, fertile mind. Now, hope can be a wonderful positive thing that powers a human forward to successes they never dreamed of reaching… it can also be the  blinkers on the bigger picture which indubitably needs realising.We can try to be pragmatic, thorough and tenacious in our buying… but there is… and will always be; when you first take up your arsenal of scrapers and paint strippers .. a Cilla Black surprise moment that you could never have anticipated .

My building, as three apartments ,I found was easier not to work from the top down, but work that had already been done, dictated I work from the ground up .So thats what I did.Let me tell you, the satisfaction of scraping a brown skirting board to reveal its true colour keeps the adrenaline going to get through the next day and the next .After I’d been harshly judged at the tip ten times, for throwing out a million old wine bottles and I’d finally made a break through with nothing less than brick acid for the black toilet; I realised it may be less time consuming if I yoked the strength of another human.This is not something I’m terribly good at. In fact ‘help’ is my least favourite word; (I have survived my existence by the skin of my teeth many times.I considered my flip unflappable.)

Until an old four story granite building became chez moi.

Having non-existent guttering for unspeakable decades, inevitably, my house had areas of damp. By 'areas' I mean black mould running three storeys on one whole side of the building.Not a faint hearted lass,I decided to tackle my fungus with a Polish man Friday. Now, he speaking no English and I no Polish we were forced to converse in French; His better than mine, but I like to believe I made Year one, Miss Miller proud.

Friday came armed with a box of tricks and an artillery of weapons to attack the advancing enemy.Which initially worked great! Walls were treated and I had that new plaster enthusiasm when a stride of progress had been made.  but, once the heating was off and the room chilled to its natural dungeon temperature...florets of moisture soaked through the beautiful new surface.Friday came again, armed with goo and a counter attack was made;But my arch nemesis monsieur champignon returned.After one particularly frustrating, muddled, gesticulated conversation of 'Fran-olish’, something both extraordinary and shocking happened. It was as if the Gods had rolled their eyes at my futile plight and sent torrential rain.

No! No! No! I screamed as if my Cnutian pleas would send the water back under the skirting board from whence it came and not create a bedroom pond.

Man Friday entered stage left quite unperturbed, took off his shirt, picked up the

20lb sledge hammer and promptly smashed a hole in the wall.I screamed out loud … then another… and another and so he went; through the goo, the plaster, through the terracotta tiles; through all the work I’d taught myself to do; through my hope and all the way through my enthusiasm .He did not stop ladies and gentlemen until he reached the exterior granite rock wall. And … with each swing, my heart sank into my now wet Timberland's. Just as I thought I’d managed not to cry, a shaft of brilliant day light splintered through the stone and pierced the  encircling dust and clouds of devastation...and just like that, Act one Scene one ended in tears; much to the panic of Friday. He soothed, stooping gently to catch my fallen gaze, “You must see, you’re fighting the wall from the wrong side?” At that moment the brevity of my whole venture loomed into reality. What else was going to have to be torn out. What other maybe more expensive problems have I overlooked or tackled from the wrong side of the wall ? Have I bitten off more than I can chew?At that moment this frightened little pig  wanted to go home. Worst of all, I realised that there was no where to go.Going back was not a viable option. In Britain's desperate financial climate,I could never afford the luxury of having a rented apartment without a partner, let alone buy a house.What was I thinking trying to do this by myself? I’ll never do it! I seemed so naive and weak standing next to Friday panting, sweating and peering through the hole, nodding and admiring his work. I was completely out of my depth...and of course, this was all happening in central France where there’s not a cream egg or a pasty to be found for 800 km radius. In search of comfort,I could only waft myself with  a sticky trowel.

Any renovation project is slow, exasperating, and often bewildering. You start with 'Dick and Angel' dreams of grandeur, but soon find yourself knee-deep in a sea of paint samples with names like "Moonlit Whisper" and "Elderberry Fog." Each day promises a small victory punctuated with cries of “I can flush the toilet!”—only to be followed by setbacks like discovering the plumbing is older than the Bastille and your flushed toilet is now emerging up into the shower tray.Through it all, you cling with broken fingernails to the hope that one day, someday, your home will be more than just a living Pinterest board of unfinished projects. So with hair stiff with dust and your sandwiches strangely crunchy; with ceiling plaster in your bra whose protruding wire is picking up reception for jazz FM; you may wonder, "why have I done this to myself? "

There is a saying that an Englishman’s home is his castle and I believe this to be true. The difference living here in France is that castles are plenty and affordable. Compared to the property prices in Britain one can secure ones nest and be free from the trappings of the bank and interest rates.

Plus, when you consider France is three times the size of the Uk ( 20% of that is protected parks and forests ) with roughly 3,000,000 less people - it’s understandable that many people flock to live here. We are drivable distance from other countries, even continents and the pace of life here is slow. If you can accept that the work you need to do Chez Vous will unfold in time and you too adopt  the infamous Gallic shrug (France’s answer to all life’s conundrums) you realise with such profound relief and a burst of pride that… you’ve broken free. No mortgage, no landlords, less people, more trees..more sky. Suddenly, not having a kitchen or a fully working bathroom doesn’t seem so bad. As the dust settles the bigger picture comes into view you can see clearly that your dreams didn’t dwindle; you just needed to clear the debris to draw them closer to fruition.

So, now, my ground floor apartment is completed.What seemed insurmountable has been joyously overcome. I stand in the bare second apartment, with a sense of great achievement, watching the sun dance across the old turrets and little rooftops.I know that however the cards fall; what ever is next will be possible.I think the most important thing to learn in achieving the fairytale, is that you must find the grace to submit to a life within its plot twists and uncertainties; the journey through the enchanted forest is not a straight road. Armed with such practical experience, there is no room for regret, no remorse...just solutions and answers that pave the many roads to our final fairytale destination.