In 1995 I arrived in Spain for a holiday plus a bit of house-hunting, staying in a friend’s apartment. By the time I left two weeks later I had found my dream house, but only on the last day and not without problems.
I had been shown different houses by different agents, but I also had a sheaf of faxed copies of similar properties sent earlier whilst in the UK.
One in particular had taken my eye, but it was a bad copy and I couldn’t find the property. At the last minute I discovered it, and eventually found someone who had a key who showed me round it – perfect!
I headed home, as the casa was being sold by a UK agent, who turned out to be an off-hand Yorkshireman. We eventually agreed the price, he assured me I had a bargain, and it certainly seemed that way to me as it included all the decent furniture: internally it was first-class.
He then surprised me by telling me I could do all the necessary administration and payment in the UK, via an English notary, which was news to me. I had been reading up on the seemibly-complicated Spanish way of buying and was determined not to let anyone ‘get the better of me’ as per the horror stories.
Well – if I thought the agent was odd, the English notary was …well, incredible!
As it was early August and my wife and I wanted to complete the purchase to go out for a holiday on the bank holiday weekend at the end of the month, ‘Mr ‘ sent us the papers to sign and return. Apparently both we, and the UK sellers (also fromYorkshire, as it ‘appened), signed in the wrong places.
In order to get the job done in time, we actually had to meet the notary in person on Bedford station of all places, and sign in his presence in the buffet. We met this strange pin-striped-suited city-type character on the platform and went into the buffet to a table. To say he and my (now ex) wife clashed in personalities was an understatement. Within seconds she said, as usual, exactly what she thought, which was that she thought ‘all this’ was ridiculous, with an elaborate wave of her arm. He took off his half glasses, folded them up and put them down on top of the papers.
‘You think all – what – is ridiculous?’ he demanded, and imitated her elaborate wave. I managed to calm it down, and we all signed. Driving home from Bedford was lively…
We made it Spain on time and took over our new property. The casa was a terraced property, next to the end one which faced alternately to mine, my back was his front, and vice-versa. From my front position the land sloped gradually away down to the back of the property, the front being about a metre higher than the back. The galleria at the back had been converted into another room, with an outside door.
The funny thing was that when you opened this back door, you were about three feet above ground level, due to the slope of the land. The agent had assured me the property came with written planning permission for a full rear patio, and when I completed the purchase back in the UK, a sheaf of Spanish official looking stamped papers were supplied, on the local Town Hall headed paper. I assumed this was the permission
No one was next door at the time of our holiday, and we had a lovely relaxed time for the first week. Naturally I wanted to get the patio done, and after asking around ended up with a rough – ‘diamond’ is a bit strong – handyman from London, called Bill. I explained what I wanted, nothing elaborate, just three stone steps down from the door, and slabs covering the nine square metres of open ground, to be able to sit out to take advantage of the south facing rear aspect.
I went with Bill to buy the materials and the next morning he started, while we went to the beach. We came back three hours later to find Bill slouched on the front patio, glaring at me. He jerked a thumb toward next door and announced, a tad triumphantly, I thought:
‘You’ve got big trouble! Spanish ‘ere have just come from Madrid, and she’s gone beserk! The police ‘ave bin and they wanna see you!’ With this helpful information he got in his car and went, leaving me to face a lot of aggravation, both domestically internally, and externally via next door – and the law.
Ignoring the first problem, I went round the back to face the music. Bill’s dire description was spot on, as I walked into a barrage of Spanish abuse from a very small, fierce-looking older lady, plus a small Spanish gathering of onlookers, all murmuring, either nodding or shaking heads, pointing – it all wasn’t looking good.
The next minute two young policeman arrived – Godzilla, the poisoned Spanish dwarf raised her pitch and speed of delivery, giving it hooray to the more senior-looking of the two policemen. He attempted to stop her with little success, attempting meanwhile to speak to me in polite Spanish to indicate that, as some building had started, did I have planning permission? I realised what he wanted and I assured him that I had: he indicated to me to go and get it.
Bravely ignoring serious internal queries, I went back out to the lynch mob, cockily brandishing my ‘permission’. He examined all the papers one by one carefully, and then shook his head slowly. He pointed out various sentences, which of course meant nothing to me, pointing to date stamps on the papers, which were about a year old. It began to dawn on me that all was not well, perhaps I had been sold a pup. Oh yes, it turned out to be REFUSAL of planning permission!
To be continued ……..
