I have never before had such a distinguished collection of people sending me e mails……American veterans of Irak who have stashed loot away, Nigerian bank officials and state governors who seek to export their money under the radar, a terminally ill lady who wants to donate her cash to me, a Rolls Royce dealer who cannot wait for details of my bank account in order to contribute to its’ girth….and all because my house is for sale! I am sure it was never like this when I was first house hunting in France!

In those far off days, the internet market did not exist…or if it did, France hadn’t heard of it and neither had I. Mark you there are a lot of agents and notaires who still haven´t heard of it to judge by their sales methodology which consists of asking around among their friends to see if anyone wants to buy a house and then sinking back in their chairs, duty done.

Accordingly I decided on the areas I liked and set out to visit agents’ offices, guided by perusal of the Yellow Pages in the kiosk in the local post office. I am sure that there were agents who weren’t in the Yellow Pages, and they’re probably the ones who still aren’t using the internet to this day, distrustful of any technology that might cost money and even more distrustful of any technology that comes for nothing.

The more organised had loose leaf binders with photographs and details…..some even with prices….and when I had made my choice, the page would be copied on to yellow paper in black ink, thus reducing a ‘des res’ to something more closely resembling a fire damaged wreck in seconds.

These days agents are very wary of letting you out of their control…you might do a deal with the owner behind their back, after all, to avoid paying the commission….and some even make you sign a paper agreeing that they have introduced you to the property, but in those days you would  be given the keys where they existed, the agent would indicate the location of the properties on a map – ‘we are here and the enemy is there’ – and off you would go into the wilds of rural France while he settled down to peace and quiet again.

I saw some wonderful properties…..there was half a chateau, which was enchanting, fairy tale turrets and all, except that the other half was owned and used by a family of dedicated scrap metal merchants who believed in round the clock working and displaying their stock to advantage…..there was the house with wallpaper depicting the worst excesses of the French Revolution which covered cracks into which you could insert your hand up to the armpit……there was the house without wallpaper from whose cracks you had a panoramic view of the countryside…..there was the house with the vaulted stone cellar where the ribs were lined with bats who rustled in annoyance when I shone my torch on them…..there was the house with miles of underground passages complete with railway lines and a large hole in the courtyard giving immediate access to same…..there were Marie Celeste houses where the remnants of the last meal were green on the plate….and there was the house with a tower which had such an evil atmosphere that I went out faster than I came in.

‘For sale’ signs did not exist and, given the French habit of living behind closed shutters whenever the sun shines, it could be a toss up as to whether the house you were about to visit was actually the one for sale, or whether you would open the kitchen door to find a couple making love at the sink. Another house involving a hasty exit.

I was looking for a cheap place that might need some work, so I was spared the Edgar Allen Poe experience of entering a room only to find that, as the proud owner had wallpapered not only the walls but also the ceiling and the door, I couldn’t find my way out again. It had happened to me once in a hotel in the Pas de Calais, where I had found myself in a prison of electric blue shag pile  with the owner’s dog guarding the only possible exit – the window. Luckily it had an en suite.

It was not only an introduction to French rural property, it was an introduction to an invaluable item of local lore – knowing how to approach a property from the right side. There was one house which looked ideal, but on three successive days I had failed to find it. On the fourth, the agent pulled out the map and made me show him how I had gone about looking for it. I traced my route on the map and he had his ‘Eureka’  moment.

‘But you are approaching it from the wrong side! You’d never find it like that!’

Now, in my innocence, I had thought that a road was a road was a road. No, not in rural France. He showed me the right way to approach the house…..on a long lane leading from the village rather then on a long lane leading from the main road and, on  trying it, I found the house at once. I had been all but on top of it three days’ running, but had not found it due to being on ‘the wrong side’. It is a phenomenon impossible to explain, but after a while spent running round the lanes of rural France you will come to understand it for yourself.

I bought that house, and it was a happy introduction to life in France.

If you are house hunting, I hope that you will be as fortunate.

Stumble it!