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BUYING ABROAD
Diary Of A Brit Buying Abroad
Ever dreamt of owning a home abroad, but thought it was out of your league? Truth is, you could rent in the UK and buy abroad much more cheaply – and have an adventure on the way, just as James Estill did. We follow his hilarious European Odyssey from flat-sharing in the UK to the home of his dreams abroad.
‘I am a One in 10 apparently. Not in a UB40 stylee, queuing for my fortnightly dole cheque, but one of the 10 per cent of Brits who have, or who have seriously thought about, moving away from the UK, in search of a better life.
By a better life, I don’t mean necessarily mean an eco-friendly, tree-hugging existence – although I know those are the criteria for many of my compatriots – but more of a reverse economic migration, looking further a field for affordable housing far from the madness that is the UK property market.
Who Can Afford The UK?
For some reason, me and my property purchases in the UK have never quite gelled. Whilst the majority of my contemporaries have lived through the two boom and bust cycles over the last 20 years and managed to emerge reasonably unscathed, still holding on to one or more properties whose values are still shooting up, my forays into house buying have always ended up less than fruitful.
Fuelled by the hype and scared of missing out on Mrs T’s homeownership-for-all policies and tax breaks in abundance, I took heed of my parents wise words that ‘you’ll never lose money in bricks and mortar’, and bought my first flat in Upper Norwood, SE London in August 1988. With low interest rates and low-start endowments on offer, I bought my two-bedroom lower ground floor Victorian conversion flat in a ‘conservation area’ in one of the most ‘up and coming’ areas for the then not-so-paltry sum of £72,000. Sorted.
Until, three months later, the market imploded, interest rates doubled and the speculators in The City had turned my modest mansion into an almighty millstone. Taking a second job became a necessity and to avoid being a repossession statistic, the second bedroom had to be rented out to a traffic warden completely devoid of charisma or culinary skills, who fried eggs, and practically everything else, in three inches of oil.
Despite my best efforts, and fast forward four years when the resurgent boom rippled out south of the river, I sold the flat for a handsome 20 grand loss, negating all my hard-earned savings that I’d ploughed in to the deposit for the poxy place. I skulked away, tail between my legs, vowing never to go down the house-buying road again.
There followed a lengthy period of renting and house-sharing – some of the best years of my life, it has to be said – free from the shackles of trackers, PEP and index-linked mortgage repayments, smugly avoiding the gaggles of gazumpers and gazumpees that became so prolific in the mid-to-late nineties.'
