I had a sudden vision of myself, wrinkled as a walnut and dressed in black, sitting sidesaddle on a donkey
There are people who collect air miles and 50-pence-off coupons for fabric softener. These are people who, when they get a sudden windfall from a two-book deal with a publisher, schedule a meeting with their accountants to discuss pensions.
Then there are people who blow the lot on a house in Greece.
I’ve dreamt of buying a Greek house ever since my first back-packing holiday there. I remember lying petrified in a tiny blue tent at dawn while someone rifled through my rucksack outside – only to find, when I eventually emerged, that someone had been filling it with sun-warm apricots. That alchemy of generosity, simple food and sunshine hooked me forever.
Actually I did meet with my accountant. I was planning to buy a small flat in up-and-coming, Angel-blessed Gateshead and give it the Sarah Beeny treatment, a kind of real-estate Botox to fill its cracks and produce a smooth, bland patina. It was a standard buy-to-let plan, a sensible squirrel policy to keep me in nuts for the long winter of my dotage. The rent would pay off the mortgage over 25 years, then provide an income until I popped my clogs.
But my accountant informed me that, what with tenant turnover, agency fees and tax, I’d need at least three Beenified flats to cover my old-age outgoings.
Faced with a future filled with skips, swirly carpets and polystyrene ceiling tiles, I immediately squandered a chunk of my Beeny money on a half-term break on our favourite Greek island. Over a restorative retsina, I began doggedly to debate laminate flooring with my Poet (best-beloved father of our nine-year-old daughter), when he remarked, ‘Why don’t you just buy that Greek house you’re always going on about?’
‘But what about my pension?’
‘We’ll move to Greece when we’re old and live on olive oil and tomatoes.’
The skips were swept aside suddenly by a vision of myself, wrinkled as a walnut and dressed in black, sitting sidesaddle on a donkey. And the Poet with worry beads and a large white moustache. A great improvement – in every way.
At the smart real-estate office in the main square, a woman in a flowery skirt handed me a leaflet detailing the ‘traditional Greek homes’ they built: bijoux white shoeboxes ‘with terracotta roof, fitted kitchen and fully tiled floors’, perched on isolated promontories with ‘stunning sea views’. Prices started at around £55,000 – far more than we could afford.
Did they have something a bit less ‘traditional’, I asked. Something a bit older. In a village, among Greek people? Something a bit more – er – Greek?
Why didn’t I say? she exclaimed. Of course, they did renovations too. If I came back that evening, Berit would take me to see some of the older houses on their books. And she showed me a photo of a crumbling stone cottage with a £25,000 price tag. Now this was more like it.
Berit was a fearsome Norwegian in military shorts, with a brisk manner that testified to many hot evenings ferrying time-wasting holidaymakers around the countryside. The cottage was a roofless two-room shell, with a mature pear tree in the first room and a wizened cat carcass in the second.
The Daught was distraught (‘That poor cat! How did it die?’), but the Poet was captivated (‘Is that arch Venetian? We should definitely keep the tree. Let’s roof the yard and turn the tree room into a conservatory.’).
I ignored them. This wasn’t a house. It was a ruin with no view, that would cost £35,000, Berit told us, to renovate.
I took a deep breath and explained that we were looking for a habitable house, that had been recently occupied. With a roof, a flush toilet and a vine for shade outside. Did she have something like that?
Oh, a Greek house. Why hadn’t I said? Oh no, they didn’t do Greek houses. Nobody was interested in Greek houses. If we wanted a Greek house, we would have to find a Greek estate agent.
Which is how, the following day, I found myself parking behind a dusty red Lada and walking into an echoey office to shake hands with Vasilios Delagrammatica: estate agent, poet manque, and fixer extraordinaire.