Seriously. I do.
Whilst I realise that The Boy and I are really, really privileged to be in a position to be looking to buy our first home together, I have also had my heart bruised a little by the house-hunting process.
You see, we have been looking for our perfect first home together for a few months now. We’re quite specific in what we’re looking for, we definitely know what we want:
- Minimum of two bedrooms
- Parking or on-street parking
- A garden
- Have character
- In need of restoration/modernisation
- Be in a pretty part of the county that provides us with a different kind of lifestyle (the reason why we moved to Devon in the first place!)
We had viewed about seven properties during our search, but each time they fell short of what we were looking for, or they just didn’t feel ‘right’.
Then we found it. And fell in love with it.
It was a lovely 1900s terraced 3 bed house that needed completely renovating. It had been in the same family since it was built and had many of its original features were still in place. As The Boy and I wandered around the house my heart swelled. Those original sash windows! The beautifully tiled fireplace in the front room! The cast iron fireplaces in the bedrooms! That awesomely retro cooker! The space! The picture rails!
Once we left the house we immeadiately began talking about what we’d do to the house and what work was essential. We both fell for it and decided to put in an offer.
We put in Offer #1 knowing that the house had already had two offers made on it that had been rejected. No surprise then that offer #1 was rejected as well. Offer #2 was placed and whilst waiting for to hear back from the agents we decided that we didn’t want to lose this house for the sake of what, in the grand scheme of the house price, was a couple of thousand pounds and so put in Offer #3 at the full asking price.
We then waited. And waited. We then heard that someone else had put in the asking price and the Vendor now wanted an extra £50 to round up the asking price to a nice neat round number. You’re not reading that incorrectly, they really only wanted fifty pounds. Ridiculous right?! My principles were dying to scream down the phone “Are you serious? Fifty quid? Well, you know what you can do with your fifty quid….” etc, but we loved the house and therefore agreed to round up our offer. So that made it Offer #4.
Once more we waited. For 48 hours. I am sure that I was getting to be quite annoying for the estate agents, constantly ringing to see if they knew anything, but I couldn’t help myself. I hated not knowing and being drifting in a miserable state of limbo. Finally the Estate Agents rang. The Vendor had decided to go with the other bidder.
I was crushed. I cried on the phone to The Boy when telling him the news and then again on the phone to my Mum. We really did picture ourselves living in that house, lovingly restoring it making sure that we stayed true to its character and heritage. I had spent my time daydreaming about the family that we would raise there, the friends and family that would visit, the trips to the beach that was only 15 minutes away. I felt like we’d already invested a little bit of ourselves into that house and to have it taken away from us was awful.
That was about two weeks ago, and since then I’ve found it really hard to pick myself up and dust myself off. I’m usually a really optimistic person, who looks for the positives in a situation and can say ‘ah well, it wasn’t meant to be’, but this time I have found it so hard to do so. I’ve started looking at properties again, measuring them against the house we lost. So far, they have all fallen short.
I’m sure, given time, I’ll be back to my chipper self and that The Boy and I will find our home. I guess I just have to let my heart get over its house-shaped bruise and be patient that the right house is still out there, waiting for us.