Crunch time on the property ladder

Last night we had the crunch meeting in our quest to buy a house in Ibiza. As ever, nothing had gone smoothly in the run up.

We arrived back on the island at about 3am on Sunday morning. The flight was on time. But there were annoyances along the way, as there always will be, as long we divide our lives between Ibiza and Edinburgh. There are, for instance, direct flights in the summer between the two places, but you can only make the return trip if you start in Scotland, not Spain. So every trip requires hours of internet searching for the best deal. This time it was to Gatwick with First Choice Airways. (Basically it’s a way for the holiday company to flog unused package seats.) The rest of the journey was with BA which beat easyJet on both price and timing between Edinburgh and Gatwick.

The trouble, however, with using two airlines is you have to allow several hours to make the connection or risk the cost of missing the second flight. Gatwick though has an enormous shopping centre and there were a couple of tax-free things I intended to buy as presents for friends in Ibiza. Unfortunately, the terminal was eerily empty and and just about everything was shut when we arrived on Saturday evening. (If anybody’s planning a late flight on a Saturday from Gatwick, get your shopping done before 7pm.)

This will not be a problem on our next trip back to Edinburgh in June. We’ll be flying into the exciting new Robin Hood International Airport near Doncaster. Looking at its website there’s all sorts of “proposed” developments, but current facilities seem to consist of a coffee bar and a Spar. (That’s not a misspelling. I do mean the convenience store rather than a place filled with Jacuzzis, steam and relaxation treatments.)

Anyway, less of the future and back to the recent past. After arriving at the hotel at 4.30am on Sunday, knackered, it seemed only minutes before we had to drag ourselves up to see the house. We’d only spent half an hour there in total, and always accompanied by the tenants who were under the impression we were going to be renting the place when they left. Hopefully they would have gone as I’d also arranged for a friend who’s an engineer to come round with me to see if he could spot any real nasties in the construction. (There’s no such thing as surveying as a profession in Spain.)

Then my mobile rang. We couldn’t get access that day as the vendor wouldn’t answer his phone because it was Sunday (none of that American 24/7 service here) and the tenant had taken the other set of keys back to England. So we arranged another appointment the for yesterday lunchtime. That fell through too. My mate the engineer was almost as delighted as me.

That meant when we had the meeting at the lawyer’s office Barbara and I still hadn’t had chance for a proper look round the house. And while we’d been in Scotland for two weeks the vendor had been busy rearranging the goalposts. This time he wanted to double the amount of the deposit to pay an urgent bill.

As it happens, this was something of a fortuitous problem. While in Edinburgh I’d had a call from a credit card company asking if I wanted to transfer any outstanding balances from other cards. I don’t have any debts from plastic as I feel this is a very expensive way to borrow money. Telling the operator this, I was immediately offered a loan which would be interest free for the first six months. Obviously the company hopes you won’t be able to pay the cash back at the end of that period, but I will and I had a feeling that extra cash could prove useful. Of course, I didn’t tell the vendor any of this and instead explained to him that getting the extra money was expensive and difficult.

This all took place at the meeting which was scheduled for 5pm, not an unusual time in the land of the siesta. Barbara and I, however, arrived five minutes early which amused our lawyer who felt it showed how foreign we still are. A few minutes later our negotiator arrived and, some time after that, the vendor. But the wait at least gave the lawyer chance to explain the intricacies of the proposed sale contract. It was just as well because we weren’t going to be involved in any of the actual negotiations.

All along our negotiator’s main words to me were: “Don’t worry darling. It’ll be fine.” I never believed it. And, as the negotiations went on, I believed it even less. Barbara and I could make out much of the Spanish, but not quite enough to take part. The vendor was still avoiding eye contact and we knew enough to understand he was trying to change the rules yet again. Our lawyer would make one point, the negotiator would back it up in slightly pidgin Spanish and the deal seemed to be crumbling before our eyes. Then our negotiator started to speak very firmly to the vendor. Suddenly it was all sorted. We shook hands. There were lots of smiles and we agreed to go through the formalities of paying the deposit and signing on Thursday evening. But before that, we actually got to see the house again. It would have been a bit of a shame if we’d hated it on second appearances.

I must admit to feeling more dazed than exhilarated as we left the lawyer’s office with our negotiator. It was also now clear that she was rather less certain the deal would come off than she made out. As we’d guessed, the pivotal moment came as she became stern with the vendor. She was playing the maternal card. She told us she’d learned at least some of her negotiating skills while married to an Italian, the boss of a Sicilian construction company even. (Use your imagination.) She believes Mediterranean machismo is basically matriarchal, so she treated the vendor as a mother would a misbehaving child. But she admitted it didn’t always work and the vendor had threatened to pull out when she tried it before.

As we drove to the house we still couldn’t believe we’d bought it. In fact we couldn’t even find it to begin with, overshooting the narrow road leading up to it twice. On arrival we could see why the vendor was reluctant to show us the place. A few weeks in the care of an alcoholic had left the place looking rather sad and, in the kitchen, distinctly smelly. Still, we’re promised that by Friday it will be spotless thanks to the efforts of a team of cleaners, gardeners and pool maintenance people.

But underneath the grime the house looks as fabulous as we’d remembered. And we managed to drag along my friend who’s a qualified engineer and a builder. He couldn’t see any problems apart from a couple of minor damp patches. This is one of those things that’s both more prevalent and less problematic than in the UK. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.

So, Thursday afternoon we hand over a certified cheque and sign the initial papers. There’s the standard Spanish agreement that if we renege on the deal we lose the deposit. If the vendor backs out he pays us twice the deposit. Friday should be our first night there, not that we have any furniture. But that’s for the next episode of the blog.