ride so that we would arrive for lunch. What we hadn’t considered was the weather, which looked sunny when we started off but rapidly began to change to clusters of fast-moving clouds. In the distance we could make out patches of rain. We had pretty well made it to Vinsobres when one of the clouds opened up overhead and soaked us through.
By the time we descended to the village and rode up to the restaurant we had dried a bit in the sun, but the owner took a long look at us standing at the doorway dripping onto his floor.
“Sacrebleu!” he muttered under his breath, and then to us, “Restez-là, s’il vous plaît.” Off to the kitchen he went, returning with two towels.
We wiped ourselves down as best we could and then he seated us in the warm sun on the patio. We had tried this restaurant on an earlier occasion but found it closed. The couple who operated it had been away on their honeymoon. Today they were both here, she serving the tables, he seating people. However, they took time to talk affectionately to each other, and catch each other’s eye as they worked.
“He keeps patting her butt,” I said.
“Stop that,” Marie-Hélène said in a lowered voice.
“I’m not the one—”
“Gordon!” she glared at me.
“But . . .”
“But nothing!”
Our lunch arrived just then. Mine was a delicious chicken thigh with crackling skin, served with a purée of potatoes, and Marie-Hélène had a lettuce-and-sliced-tomato salad with large shavings of parmesan over the top. A small bottle of truffle-infused olive oil came with it. As we were in a well-known wine village, we ordered a demi-carafe of Vinsobre wine.
On the ride back to our house we managed to dodge any showers and enjoyed coasting down the steep hill that had given us so much work at the start.
Chapter 3
Buying French real estate
Real estate transactions in another country should be considered a matter of “assume nothing and ask questions about everything.” Buying our house seemed an easy enough task once we had found the one we wanted. We had spent two weeks in Nyons with a realtor looking through listings and visiting more than a dozen houses.
We became acquainted with stone ruins advertised as maison à restaurer, which meant that there was a lot of work to do and a lot of money to be spent. We had been warned about the amount of money involved in restoring an old stone house. “It’s cheaper to build a new house than restore a ruin,” was the advice. One house was built into a cliff face so that in rainy weather it offered its own running water across the floor. Another was a villa on the knoll of a hill with fabulous views. Then we noticed that all the trees leaned south from the force of the mistral wind. A delightful mas in the countryside had no water supply as the well had gone dry. It was understandably vacant.
Finally, on the flight home we decided to make an offer on a house sheltered on a southern hillside on the outskirts of Nyons. Marie-Hélène telephoned the realtor and then e-mails went back and forth without any documents being signed.
“Don’t we need to make a formal offer?” I asked the agent.
“No, it’s not necessary,” she said.
The next e-mail we received said that the vendor would leave the sinks, the toilets and the kitchen cupboards.
“But those things are fixtures and go with the house, don’t they?” I asked, astonished.
No, apparently not, at least not in France. We were told that when someone rents an apartment the tenant must install his or her own fixtures. A vacating tenant takes all fixtures.
“What about the doors and the light switches?” I wanted to know.
Well, those things do go with the house, but not the light fixtures, I was informed.
After some further negotiations, the price was agreed upon, but there had been no discussion about a deposit.
“We’ll get to that,” was the response.
Then two days later the tone changed. The e-mail read, “If you are serious about the house please send us a deposit of ten per cent of the price immediately.” We were to learn later that a rival offer had come in from another real estate agency. When we sent our money in the form of a bank draft drawn in euros, we knew we had crossed the line and were committed to owning a house in Provence.
Closing the purchase of property in France proved to be another new experience. Arriving at the office of the notaire to sign the papers, we met the realtor, Madame Joule, already there, waiting with the vendor. He was a retired civil servant, in fact the former tax collector for the village. We had been told that his career hadn’t made him very popular around Nyons. He was seated in the waiting room like an old curmudgeon and rose reluctantly to be introduced.
The notaire’s secretary appeared and showed us all into an office furnished with a few chairs and an oversized ornate Louis XIV desk. The notaire rose from his antique chair in a grand welcoming manner, shaking our hands. Then his secretary carried in a heavy, leather-bound tome, which she set on the desk in front of him already opened to the relevant page.
He put on his glasses and read the entire transaction aloud to us.
Did we have any questions?
I asked if we would receive a deed to the property. Of course not, was his reply. It was, after all, all recorded in the title book he had in front of him.
Was there a plan of the property I could see?
No, there wasn’t, the vendor said. It seemed that when the village expropriated a corner of the lot to put the road through no one had bothered to do a new plan. I saw the notaire take the cap off his fountain pen and make a notation in the margin of the tome.
At this juncture the vendor was showing signs of considerable agitation. “Why do you need a plan? After all, the property has a wall along one side and the rest is fenced. Isn’t that clear enough?”
I acquiesced to this assertion as there was nothing else to be done short of stopping the transaction. “Any other questions, Monsieur?” the notaire asked. We moved along to the signing of the documents.
We were all handed ball-point pens and the secretary moved the documents past us in succession, showing us where to sign. Madame Joule stayed at the side of the vendor and talked quietly to him to see that all went well. Once the papers were signed, the secretary gathered them up and left the room.
I had been expecting to see a statement of adjustments showing the use of the funds we had given to the notaire. Nothing had appeared.
“Do you have a statement for the funds?” I finally asked.
“Monsieur, that will be in the report that will be mailed to you in a few months.”
We were handed the keys.
The notaire stood up, indicating that the transaction was complete. The vendor remained seated and asked when he would receive
