House #21: The close talker

Up bright and early, we went to meet our next immobilier. This one another gay British guy (it's like a syndicate) named Derek. He had a very nice house, but nothing like the castle from the day before, which was a relief. Anyway, he led us through some back country roads to a tiny hamlet called Riols.

1st impression: nice house.

Seriously. Very solid, good size. Great quercyoise fish-scale roof, nice garden. Outbuilding, history. So far so good. We hung out in the yard for a spell chatting with the owners, a country-couple with far fewer teeth than I (and yes, I mean between them), who Derek described as "paysans". They were friendly enough people, who'd lived in the house forever, the woman's father having bought it back in the 20's. The woman remained mostly quiet, while her husband did most of the talking, and very close talking indeed. It seems he didn't feel properly heard unless his face was directly in my own, which is bad enough, until you consider that he thoroughly and humidically spat his words out at his audience. Sarah told me she could see me backing away from him as we spoke, and him following after. Nice guy, but a little juicy for my taste. But I digress.

Their home was like their selves: solid, friendly, and completely void of the pretense of conscious decoration. But that's a good thing too, you know; there's less to un-do when nothing has been done. It was a bit messy, though. The kitchen was bright and big, retaining the old fireplace and even the ancient stone sink (under a microwave). Next to that through a wall I'd just as soon remove was a junk-filled living/dining area. A shambles, but a solidly-built one. Strip off the wallpaper, the linoleum, the panelling, and history would present itself.

Then we ventured upstairs. 4 bedrooms up there on that first floor. Me, I'd make it two bedrooms, but I'm a big fan of knocking out walls and creating large living spaces. But what jolted me up here was not the size of the bedrooms, rather their contents. How can people live, literally, amid piles, mounds, heaps, of completely discardable refuse? how can people live like this?

Really. And even in the rooms which didn't resemble the local decheterie, even in the "clean" rooms, I repeat: how can people live like this?

It's enough to induce suicide.

And then I saw the attic. Sarah didn't even bother. But I have a strong stomach. It was a nice size, and cleaned up, would make a huge and magnificent bedroom, with beams and light. But cleaned up. Because -- and this falls again into the "how can people live like this" category -- I swear the entire floor was blanketed, caked, encrusted, in no less than 2 solid inches of bird shit. No joke. Apparently some pigeons had been living there for some decades, and found it a hospitable place to pass the time, year upon year, sleeping and cooing and making sweet avian love, and shitting everywhere. It crunched spongiformically under my feet. Wow.

I know,all these complaints are cosmetic. The bedrooms, the walls, the guano, all this is easily and cheaply reparable. The close-talking spit-farmer could be easily eclipsed simply by buying him out of his own home. And the house could be restored to a state of glory. Everything about the house itself, deep down, was beautiful. And I mean it. I loved this house. And Kepler loved the yard, with its grass and its two-story outbuilding, perfect for a combination playroom/guest house:

But we had to say no. It's a case of the right house in the wrong place. Riols was just a pit of a hamlet, in the middle of nowhere and with nothing really to recommend it. And in this case, the houses of Riols were so close upon us, so clumped together, that we never would have felt a moment's privacy. The neighbors' houses delineated our yard. And when we went to check out the nearest commercial town for schools and shops, we were grossly underimpressed. Which is too bad. Because I think the house itself was fantastic.

But in your ideal dream house, I suppose, there's very little room for nightmare, and so we left Riols, wiping the proprietor's saliva off our faces, and heading onward to see yet another available home.