No, not a four bedroom ocean-view villa for a fortnight in August. I’m talking for keeps, here. Well, at least for a year or so, anyway.
When we first decided on a move to Portugal. No, I’ll start again. When we first decided on a move to the Algarve, it was agreed that renting a property would be the best way to explore the region before committing to a purchase. After all:
the cost of living in Portugal is less than that of the U.K.;
there are lots of rental properties available;
the Estate Agent we met in April said he could sort us out with quite a few long term lets to look at.
Game on. But what of the Players:
a single man in his early twenties with a backpack and the clothes he stands up in?
a rich and retiring couple with Euros to burn and all the time in the world to do it?
a Portuguese speaking Property Consultant with a thing for white paint and tiles?
None of the above, I’m afraid. ‘We’ consisted of myself, my partner, her parents, our son and each and every thing we owned.
Our criteria were, not so much ‘open ended’ as ‘never ending’. Still, at least the ladies agreed on the main points – they shall live in a spacious and light, low maintenance modern villa with a couple of balconies above the pool area and barbecue zone. They will not be overlooked; looking over; too close to or too far away from people. The immaculate, manicured gardens will compliment the rural surroundings and be the ideal place to sit and marvel at the breathtaking views of the rolling hills, whilst listening to the gentle crashing of the waves from the private beach below. It will be tranquil and unspoilt by tourists and only a two minute walk from a world class Chinese restaurant. Oh, and by the way, we’ll be needing two of those. Not too close, but not so far away that we can’t visit each other regularly.
Unfurnished.
Hopes, Rocks and Dashed are the words that spring to mind now. But at the time, 800 Euros a month seemed a generous budget for such a humble abode in a country where “it’s cheaper to live” and there are “lots of rental properties” and the “nice man” we met has “loads” to show us etc.etc.
So, with one of the houses sold and ours still awaiting a buyer, it was time to wave off the scouting team.
We hoped it wasn’t too many days before the villas were located and deposits deposited. Our son was due to start Year 10 of his education in less than a month and it would be better for all concerned if he was ’settled in’ before then.
The school was a fee paying school, but also a necessity, as the relative continuity of the curriculum meant the lad had a fighting chance of (academically) surviving the move. Anyway, this school is located west of Central Algarve. So, we now had another criteria to add to the mix: one of the luxurious villas (off the beaten track, yet close to all amenities) needed to be, either, near the school, or close to a school bus pick-up point. Anything east of the airport or too far inland was out of the question.
From their vantage point (east of the airport and quite a bit inland) the scouting team made daily sorties into the west; reporting back to the U.K., incessantly gathering intelligence that would one day, hopefully, soon, prove crucial to the relocation exercise.
One day came and one day went. August departed and September arrived. We departed and also arrived. Then, after a short honeymoon period it was time to get down to the business of finding our elusive (air conditioning in every room and miniscule electricity bills) villa.
September (we were told) was when shed loads of lets came on the scene. Once the tourists had gone, landlords would be “biting our hands off”. We were all becoming very excited about how ‘off the beaten track’ the (separate Jacuzzi, for those who prefer not to swim 15m lengths of the pool) villa was going to be. I mean, even we couldn’t find it and we were trying damn hard.
Each day we trawled the Estate Agents, who suggested we try the Villa Management people, who, in turn, suggested the Resident, the Portugal News and the 123 newspapers. The Resident and 123 papers hit the streets on a Thursday and so did we. Driving around with a mobile to the ear; munching lunch out of a bag; scribbling appointment times on a pad; changing gear and guzzling peach flavoured iced tea (the new Coca-Cola).
One of our many caffeine pit-stops was at a supermarket (I’ll use a pseudonym rather than the real name of the supermarket). This supermarket was called Macedonia and it was in a town called Old Mans Hill. On the notice board of the supermarket, appeared a postcard offering a villa for long term rent, right there in Old Mans Hill. Moreover, I had read the postcard and understood it: the landlord would speak English. He did.
We met, looked around and returned to the ladies with our quarry. Was this one of the (old and traditional but modern and clean) villas in the bag?
No. But it was big enough for all of us together and (not wishing to divulge the cost) was exactly twice the 800 Euros budget we were going to spend per villa anyway.
So myself, my partner, her parents, our son and each and every thing we owned moved into the villa, which, apart from storage space and a pool, met none of the criteria specified. We needed to continue the search.
October (we were told) was when all the properties became available. September (we were told) was not a good time: Golfers take over where the tourists left off, and whoever told us September was good knew nothing. Once October comes, the landlords would be “falling over themselves to get to us”.
Once again, the cycle began. Mondays to Wednesdays driving around different areas nipping in and out of estate agents; looking for ‘Aluga Se’ signs on the fronts of houses; scanning the supermarket notice boards. Thursdays and Fridays were early starts and involved phoning one number out of the paper en route to see another property. But each and every time, having driven from A to B to C to D with hope in our hearts – nothing. The ad. would give the raw details: number of rooms; location; price etc. The initial phone contact would provide a little more info, and both stages allowed you to eliminate or investigate the property further. But, without images, stage 3 had to be a trip to the property.
Much misery over many miles ensued. One property we were shown around belonged to a family whose business had gone bust. The first six or so rooms were underwhelming but inoffensive; the seventh contained the family. Our guide was surprised at how much of a problem this presented.
Another property we viewed had an old man in bed. “The Grandfather wouldn’t be alive much longer. So the casa would be available then” we were informed.
Then there was the house of poodles. The owner beckoned us in from behind the back door, then scurried away into a downstairs room, where she continued our conversation. Five plates of dog food sat in a sort of line. You could tell Monday’s plate from Friday’s plate. The shower room had no shower curtain and, even in the dim light, you could see it was full of old shoes. We never actually met her.
In the same area, another lady escorted us around her property for ten minutes before casually announcing the blue door in the hallway would be her access only – to her part of the house.
This practice seems not uncommon, as several Portuguese landlords intended to continue living in some annexe or other. One had 3 buildings available on the same site – 2 empty plus his house. If we didn’t like the 2 empty ones we could have his family home and he would move his family into one of the others.
Ultimately, you need to inspect a property before you can fully assess its viability as a home. But, had I been able to see photographs online, I could have definitely weeded out 80% of them before arranging a visit – saving time, disappointment and Earth’s precious resources.
As a result of my frustrations, I have built a free submission website for landlords to offer properties. Images are encouraged and I have tried to make the whole process as simple as possible.
http://www.algarzette.com
Repossession
