The colourful
journey of encounters with clients keen to realise
their dream in France.
Monday. Always the busiest day of the week. While
I have been enjoying my weekend my inbox has been
receiving many requests to see properties. Last
weekend, by the way, was the busiest one of the
year for my village. Sunday was La fete d’olivier. Only
in France, can they decide that the olive tree needs
celebrating. Everything linked to olive oil, the wood
from the olive tree, and the fruit itself. 200 stalls
surround the old walls, and stall holders sell their
wares to the 10 000 visitors that amble through. An
oddity does occur however. Well 2 actually. The first
is a contest held in the main square. It is called
Grand concours d’aioli. 12 people of all ages stand
behind their bowls made from olive wood. In front of
them, they all have the following ingredients: 1 egg, a
bottle of olive oil, a head of garlic and salt and
pepper. The idea is to mix these ingredients in an
aioli (generally used to dip crudités into) in your
own, special way and then the judge, armed with slices
of baguette, tries them all and declares a winner. Each
contestant somehow manages to include their own secret,
or not so secret, way of crushing the garlic, the speed
and amount of olive oil that is drizzled into the
wooden bowl, how it is mixed up and finally, with their
finger, they taste it as if sampling a finest Claret.
The second bizarre event is called “The contest of
throwing the Beret.” The Beret is the archetypal flat
cap, usually black, that is worn by Frenchmen. This
contest is to see how far the Beret can be frisbeed.
Personal techniques have been developed over the years,
ranging from quick flick of the wrist to something that
resembles putting the shot. The cap has to land in a
chalk marked area to be legal. The judge was a pure
comic character. Long white beard, he was sporting an
outfit fit for a clown- and of course, a red Beret. The
winner flung his cap a total of 29 yards. He won a
bottle of first pressed virgin olive oil- of course!
We have 6 people who want to see properties this week,
so appointments are made. I have 1 person to show
around this afternoon. She is a lady of a certain age,
who has been married a few times, and I think has done
very well out of her past men. She has given me a
budget of 500 000 euro ($630 000) to find a home
where she can put up, with great en-suite comfort, her
friends and then her family. She needs a small garden,
no pool, and in good condition. Well, it sounds a lot
of money, but at this time, it is a tough brief. I have
selected a handful of properties ranging from a 19th
Century renovated church to a very modern, circa 1990
home. She turns up looking like a true Parisienne,
haute couture abounding, and of course, a small yapping
dog. She rides in my car (sadly the aircon decided not
to work , and with an outside temperature nudging 36 C,
her coiffure decided to start flattening itself ), and
we do the viewings. She is like a whirlwind going
through the properties, flinging questions at me,
wiping her finger along the top of a Louis XVI
sideboard and inspecting her finger to see if it had
been recently polished. She declares that she does not
find any of the 4 suitable and tells me to find some
more to show her. Back to the drawing board.
Tuesday. The first of my new clients arrive 15 minutes
early. This is a bad start to the day as that first
coffee of the day has to be consumed in peace, while
feeling that dark, hot liquid going to work in the
body. They are dressed as if they were on the beach and
smell faintly of coconut oil. They belong to an ever
increasing breed of first time buyers that are
unrealistic about their budget and want the whole
dream, and more if possible, for a handful of cents.
They arrive, big and bright eyed, and are ready to be
wowed! Sadly, I can’t deliver the wow factor for them-
on paper anyhow. I show them the properties we are
going to view, and they put on a brave face, but I feel
that they are already disappointed. I show them 5
properties- all needing work to be done on them, all in
small villages and all that look like an old granny has
been living there who entered a time warp 60 years ago
and never left it. Damp smells abound, and at 1
property we viewed, the owner showed us around. Bearing
in mind that the time was 11 a.m., she greeted us
dressed in her dressing gown. There was a chicken in
the kitchen clucking around. I looked at this beast to
try and decide if it looked concerned that its days
were numbered and it was due to enter the large pot of
boiling water I saw on the stove. I decided that it was
a pet and that the pot of water was for soup made from
one of its distant relatives. After the last property
we viewed, we went to a local café and discussed our
findings. I could tell that they didn’t possess the
imagination to see past the rotten beams and chicken
droppings and imagine their dream home. I suggested new
built homes that we had in their price range. Their
little faces lit, and I could feel a collective sigh of
relief. No major renovations required and at most, just
some light painting and decorating to suit their
tastes. I dismissed them for the all important 2 hour
lunch break, and told them to come back in the
afternoon to see some more properties.
Wednesday. I receive a call from the lady of a certain
age. She has changed her mind on one of the properties
I showed her, and would like to see it again in 1 hour.
Luckily I have the keys and we meet at the property.
She leads the charge, opens most of the drawers and
cupboards throughout, smiles knowingly when we discover
a stash of Vintage Champagne and makes positive noises.
She informs me that she will ask her Lawyer to call me
the following day.
Yesterday’s young couple think they like a very modern,
characterless, small home I showed them. They are
viewing other properties and may be in touch.
Thursday. 2 of my clients want to put in an offer on
the same property. The market is very much a buyers
one, with prices being put on high with the knowledge
that offers will come in anything between 5 and 15%
below the asking price. I advise them both with the
same information, and by the end of the conversations,
I have 2 offers to put forward to the owners. There is
a 3% difference in the offers, but I leave it to the
owner to decide who she wishes to go with. 1 offer, the
lower, is easy, as there is no chain or mortgage. The
higher one is fraught with complications. She goes with
the former, but mutters that the English are taking the
Mickey on offering too little.
Friday. Our lady of a certain ages’ Lawyer calls me.
She wishes to proceed with an offer, wishes to complete
the sale within 6 weeks and would like the furniture to
be included in the sale. The latter can be quite a
common request in France. I spend many hours trying to
track down the vendor, who I eventually find on a yatch
in Greece. The furniture belongs to his family but he
has never liked that heavy, classical style himself. He
is more minimal in his tastes. My buyer is very welcome
to the furniture, but he will need it to be valued,
which takes time. This rings alarm bells in my head,
because there now will be no way to complete in 6
weeks. I convey this via the lawyer to her ladyship. We
now await the outcome of her reaction. The young couple
have gone very quiet so I will nudge them back into
life on Monday.
Another “fun” week has ended. I decide to put on my
Beret and go into the bar for a Ricard before going
home to my crudités and aioli and another fun weekend.
Yours truly.........
