Buying a house in England

I'll be honest, I didn't believe the hype.

For months now, Steven and I have been house hunting in the countryside, trying hard to strike a balance between his commute north and mine south.  We want out of the city, out of the London life, out of the noise that infiltrates our lives during the months of April through October (you know, when the windows are open).  It's been an arduous journey of saving money (no one's favourite activity), but when we see the amounts accruing, it's satisfying enough to negate those feelings that accompany not buying new clothes, shoes, drinks, dinners.  We thought that since we were renting and the house of our dreams (in the country, alongside a huge park, at the end of a tiny cul-du-sac, with parking and a backyard) was owned by a very motivated seller, that the process would run smoothly.  At least that's what I thought.  Steven believed otherwise.

They told me (the collective they, the ones who always know everything but nothing at the same time and you're never sure just what level of correctness this advice pertains to) it would take months to close, complete, and exchange (a three-part process here.  What the what?); they said there would be issues with the survey (naturally...it's a house after all, not a brand new factory); they said the solicitor would take an atrociously long time to do anything.  Impossible, I thought.

The first part of the process went quickly, effortlessly.  We were approved for the mortgage, we got an approved solicitor after much shopping around (banks here actually have a LIST of lawyers they allow you to use when negotiating the sale or purchase of a house.  It's ridiculous!), and the estate agent seemed motivated to help in anyway she could.  And then the whole thing stopped moving.

It's for the following month that I'm fairly certain our file got pushed aside on the desktops of every person who was previously working for us.  And for good reason I suppose: as we found out on Friday, the sellers made it abundantly clear on July 14 that we can't move any sooner than September 30th, due to the notice they were obligated to give the current tenants of the house.  Given that we put the offer in on the house at the latter part of June, the soonest we can move is the end of September...I guess it's not that unreasonable.  It would have just been nice to have known that we had a timeline.  

Nerve-wrackingly, my mom is coming to visit us on the 12th of October and we would really like to offer her a luxurious room at the Country Home rather than have her stay...here.  I suppose it's possible...we could move at the tail end of September and house her twelve days later.  Suuuuure.  

We're staying positive through it all.  Two searches are still due on the property (for what, I don't know), and the sellers have to provide a laundry list worth of guarantees and warranties for various things in the house (electrical work has been reported done in 2014, so we need some sort of certificate to prove it).  It's nice that the buyer doesn't need to beware here: the solicitor puts the onus on the seller the whole while.  I'm sure there are various other things that still need to be done, but for the life of me, I can't think of what they could be.  In the interim, our living room is so full of packed boxes, bags, and cartons, that it looks like an episode of Hoarders.  I've purged things left, right, and centre, making imagining our stuff fitting in the house more reasonable.  And the school gives me a whopping one day off work to move (I think that's one more than I would have gotten at home, non?), so I will be able to do something during that all-important 12-day period at the start of October.  Alas, our October school holiday will be spent painting, organising, and cleaning, but the fact that I'll be doing it in our own house, makes me very happy.  

This Country is an Island

We took this road on the way into Burgh Island, but had to backtrack to get home.  Oops.  

Welcome to the Island (Photo cred to Steven).

Drive-By Stonehenge

Only in Europe can you drive by a zillion-year-old statue-thing, zoom in, and not miss a thing.  

Last Day at Beesands

Before most of the family left, we headed down for one last fish, one last swim toe dip, a few last pictures.  Sure was quiet when 11 were reduced to three in that big old cottage.  

Bigbury-on-Sea and Burgh Island

Fowey

One day we went to visit a friend of Steven's who has left the police force and opened up two restaurants with his wife.  What a great place he's got at Lazy Jack's Kitchen.  We had pizza by the seaside, a few more than a few drinks, then headed to the local's bar for not-really-locals (reminded me of Happidus in Beomgye…full of expats).  What a beautiful day out and what a joy to hear the two of them reminisce about days gone by.  

Steven recalls a time when he was in the navy that his captain pulled the ship into the estuary and docked there for a few days.  The place was so memorable for Steven, that he kept going back when on leave.  To bring Calum and I there was a real joy for him (if I do say so myself!)…great to see a place through someone else's eyes and feel what they could have felt years and years ago.