HOUSE HUNTER:We fell in love with the period features of an old farmhouse near Bray – but my father-in-law left before you could say "demolition"
I BOUGHT my wife a present of a coffee cup and saucer on a recent trip abroad. I was delighted I had found something so nice for her. As is the way, the neatly packaged item fell at a bus stop.
Upset, I texted the German friend of mine who had helped me buy the damned thing. She replied with an apt saying, Scherben bringen Glück. Translated, it means that shards of crockery bring good luck.
We had lost our house in Kilmacud, our “Blue Phantom”, after a fraught negotiations. It was a blessing in disguise, but we nevertheless felt desolate in the immediate aftermath.
We had decided that being called liars didn’t equate to half a million euro’s worth of well invested personal abuse. We took back our cash and licked our wounds. To be honest, looking for a home has left us feeling strangely demoralised, and so even as I write, I find it hard to ignore the feeling that, Dublin, you’re not worth it, and your sales people leave a lot to be desired.
We saw an old farmhouse online, just south of Bray. We figured it could be a bit of craic to drive over to take a look. It was close to things, cute as a button, but an utter disaster area.
Was it cheap? At 250k, as chips. We must have driven past it at least three times in the weeks after the Blue Phantom fell through. It was a late Georgian, a standard farmhouse design which had been built onto over the years, and jogged a few old memories.
It resembled a now demolished farmhouse over in Dundrum, which stood across the road from what is now the Town Centre, and which before its demolition had been home to some friends of mine, who would climb trees and have wild parties. One of its inhabitants had located the house on a map that placed its existence at the beginning of the 19th century, during the reign of George III. I mention this with good reason, as youll see.
We went to view the house outside Bray, my in-laws in tow, in order to establish if it might be something we could buy as a project. The answer was clear from my father-in -law, who left before you could say “demolition”. “You should have gone to Specsavers” he chortled, amazed we’d even considered it. I didn’t really understand. Okay, so there was a hole in the floor on the landing which we were warned to avoid. “Oh, and don’t go into the room on the right, it’s about to give way.” Cheers.
It was clear this wasn’t for us, but at least provided us with an insight into the bluff that goes into property. We had fallen in love with the salvageable period touches, such as the original shutters.
We came into the front room, where a group of men in work boots holding tape measures were busy describing how the shutters would go first of all. Classy, guys, and clearly in touch with the current penchant for salvaged materials.
But then again, it’s like the actor Michael Keaton once said “You can get into any building on earth with a clipboard and a smile.”
One thing did annoy me. The agent couldn’t answer certain crucial questions about the house. The boundary between the house and the neighbour was unclear. Where was it? It didn’t include an outhouse that stood practically in the garden. Oh. The boundary ran directly beneath the back window. Getting answers was like extracting teeth in the dark.
I overheard him saying the house was Victorian. I asked him about that, citing the farmhouse of my friends in Dundrum, which had been identical to the one we were viewing. He didnt know. Where was the driveway? Pass. He came down from Dublin city dressed in his best suit on a mucky day to a country house, not able to brief punters on what exactly they were buying. We left, amused but unsatisfied; why hadnt the agent done his homework?
Agents need neither play dumb nor behave like bullies. Why take such little pride in your work?
Shards clearly bring luck. This house was a dream, and viewing it made us happy, maybe even -go-lucky. No house, but our dreams are intact.
