I have experienced first hand the stress and anxiety of trying to sell a house.
Well, a few times now but that sensation of self inflicted, albeit temporary, insecurity and rootlessness does not diminish.
I should be pretty familiar and attuned to the process given that my job is in property and I deal with sellers and purchasers on a daily basis.Through this I am, in small measures, exposed to some of their pressures and worries.
This was no more emphasised than just a couple of days ago.
My commission was to inspect and report to a prospective buyer on a property called "Blacksmiths Cottage" which was in a small Yorkshire hamlet just a few hundred metres from the crumbling cliff line of the North Sea coast.
My pre-visit research of the many internet sites in the public domain showed a modern chalet style house. The origins of its name were therefore likely to be a spurious reference to history, a bit like Jack and Vera on Coronation Street calling their city based terraced house "The Old Vicarage".
I expected a bit of a bland 1970's build quality and styling. On the one hand, not too challenging but on the other very disappointing.
On arriving outside at a rusty five bar gated driveway I noticed a few features on the house which were distinctly not from the modern era but had not been discernible in my initial desk top investigation.
The chimney stacks were painted render and the pots quite ancient. Window dimensions were squat and wide. The wall thickness to the front door opening was about two feet thick. A side wall was in local sea cobbles which will have been collected up over the generations and used for building.
The arrangement for my visit was to be met and shown around by the daughter of the owners.
This is quite a common scenario where, for example, the actual occupants are on holiday, in hospital or otherwise indisposed due to a myriad of circumstances.
A lady, in her 50's welcomed me at the front porch and then in hushed and nervous tone ushered me into the living room.
In the same low voice she looked over my shoulder to the driveway as though checking on something that was happening out of my line of sight.
After a tense momentary pause she noticeably relaxed with the words "ah, they've gone now".
I had a fleeting image of sprites, goblins or ghosts making an exit on my behalf. An explanation was required and it was this.
Her parents had moved to what had been the actual 18th century village Forge and Blacksmiths Cottage some thirty years ago. In their prime at that time in their lives they had taken on a huge renovation project. The father had been a contracts manager for a large Civil Engineering and Building Company having a wide knowledge and practical hands on skill in all trades.
I was shown an album of rather faded and age bleached photographs of the property in its abandoned and derelict state. The family were confined to a static caravan in the front garden for the duration of the scheme until habitable. This is likely to have taken a good few months.
The completed property met all of the requirements for that family with a large ground floor footprint including three living rooms, large kitchen, full width glazed verandah and a total of four bedrooms upstairs. The back garden was large and south facing and the old Forge attached provided a utility room, storage, leisure facility and a place of the oil fuel tank.
After their offspring grew up and left home the couple will have rattled around in all of that space but with a happy prospect of retirement in idyllic surroundings.
Unfortunately in their senior years they experienced ill health. The father, as with many men who had worked manually and in harsh environments, felt a stiffening of joints and arteries which had to be tackled with a course of medication. This caused mood and temper swings which were wholly out of character. Mother developed panic attacks which made interaction with others and what most of us would regard as simple chores almost unbearable to contemplate let alone attempt.
The hardest decision had to be made . It was to sell their dream home, their safe haven and the place where so many memories had been formed.
I can only imagine what reaching this stage in life is like.
A house and garden of this size demands ongoing attention and if prevented from doing this by ill health I can to some extent appreciate the stress that this produces.
The couple could not therefore take the thought of me, a stranger, wandering around their home prying and probing on behalf of a prospective new owner. I felt bad about forcing them to vacate. It was also a bit of a chilly, dull October morning. I asked if they would be all right particularly if the only option in that tiny hamlet was to walk about until I had finished my work.
I was reassured by the reply that they were going to seek refuge in a cafe on a nearby seaside caravan park.
The property was fascinating in that although renovated three decades ago it still retained authentic features of beamed ceilings, inglenooks, exposed sea cobble internal walls and overall character and charm.
It took a couple of hours to do the place justice.
On leaving I apologised to the lady, again, for inconveniencing her parents, hoping that they had not got too cold or saturated with tea.
I did glance down the street on reaching my car on the off chance of seeing what I imagined as a devoted but involuntarily bad tempered and irritable couple, huddled against the cold wind and contemplating the next stage of their lives in a bland 1970's bungalow.
I would not wish that on anyone.
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