Deep South

Friday 16 February 2018

18 degrees. Blissful warm day

Monday I was out with a client from the US. He had bought a pied à terre in town last year and now was back over from the Deep South of his country to the deep South West of mine and he was thinking of getting somewhere spacious with great views, and not isolated.

The day dawned grey with the promise of rain on the horizon. I rang the bell and jigged about on the doorstep. A cold wind was chasing some dead leaves along the road. A pair of long legs came down the stairs. Suede shoes with thick rubber soles. It started to rain. Hands were fiddling with a large set of keys and the door opened to reveal a tall man in his early 70's with an Arthur Daley hat and a moustache. We got into my car and we headed off into the gloom. He had a voice like syrup poured over waffle ; deep and rich and hypnotic.

The GPS was playing ball and took us straight to the house instead of into a field which is happened last time I tried to find this house. The man got out and looked around and pushed back his hat and said, 'aha'. It was not clear what this meant. We looked around each room and he said 'aha, ok'. The house, whilst having a 19^th century exterior, is very modern inside. The heat from the underfloor system gave a gentle, uniform warmth which was delightful. 'You know', said the man ' it is VERY modern. I like things to be …... ' he paused for the words 'older...... you know what I mean ?' (Had he not looked at all the photos I had sent him ??) We left and headed south into the mountains.

We talked of Trump and Democrats and Republicans ; of children and of Ruanda and the Côte d'Ivoire and of renters and the difficulty of getting them to leave. He says there are no bailiffs, so you have to go and give notice yourself. His renter had not paid for months, and also had taken to storing his urine in large wine jars in the hallway. In the Deep South, pulling a gun on someone is viewed as a mere misdemeanor and carries a verbal warning. So when a renter doesnt want to leave and pulls a gun on him, he calls the cops and they are just not interested. The renter eventually left and disappeared. I suggest he looks for him on Facebook. People live and die on there.

We get to the village and the mountains are hustling in, their green pine-spiked flanks freshly covered with snow. I suggest a quick sandwich and we go to a boulangerie and take our sandwiches to a bar with windows over looking the river. It is in full spate and there is a thrash of broken branches caught on a dead tree trunk. He tells me about the genocide in Ruanda and how he had met and married a lady to get her out of the country. They go to the Côte d'Ivoire and settle down and think they will start a family. It transpires that the lady cannot have children and is HIV positive. Not being able to have children is a terrible thing in Africa and he says it is acceptable to take a second wife. His first wife says she is good for this and the second wife has twins. I ask do you all live together and there are two options. Either, yes, you can live together or alternatively you set the second wife up on a plot of land and she lives there with your children. The first wife is not, as it transpires, good with this. Now he is in the US with the children and is appalled by Trump, and wants to get out.

We go to the second house, an idyllic mill on a stream. The owners are very, very keen to sell and I always prewarn them to tone down their enthusiasm in case it looks like desperation. We are there two hours. The sun makes a brief appearance and the water sparkles as it rushes under the Roman bridge. My client says he is seriously interested.

I get home at 6 pm after having left at 10 am. OH is still painting the kitchen. It is turning a paler shade of yellow. My English clients from the weekend have emailed to say they have bought in the back of beyond. Am stunned. All that talk of wanting to be in a lively village with easy access to the sea and the mountains. They have obviously been seduced by a fabulous house at a knock down price. There are always reasons why fab houses are being sold for peanuts but no one discovers them until the day they try to sell. Oh big buggerations !! Have to tell the bad news to the lady whose house I was convinced that they were going to offer on.

There is some pizza in the fridge and we watch the Onedin Line. With 91 episodes, it should keep us going all year.