There’s no way around it. Archavon is not a pretty place. But you don’t know the story yet.
I called the estate agent on the way and arranged a viewing at 1.00. I got there half an hour early and looked at the pebble dashed hovel that I’d just driven 380 miles to see, and despite its less than exciting exterior, I felt a thrill of anticipation.
I sat on one of the rocks in the Plen, the ancient monument behind the house and ate a pasty from Warrens, just looking at this angle of the house. I had no idea what it would be like inside at all.
Philip Wilkins has been St Just’s estate agent for many decades, seen children born, move through school, and then helped them buy their first houses. He knows most of the people, most of the characters, and he’s OK. I like him.
He warned me that the house was somewhat fragrant.
On the details he’d sent the house still had the previous owner’s furniture in place. The old lady had died there and her huge and very hairy Alsatian hadn’t got out for its wee anywhere near as often as it needed to. The air was hard to breath.
But I knew that would work in our favour.
The house had been to auction a couple of weeks before, but hadn’t sold.
The family were going to have to spread the takings four ways, they weren’t going to get a lot each.
But despot this, Archavon was a long way out of our reach, even before we started to think about all the work it would need.
Downstairs was grim, properly horrible. damp, very smelly, lilac walls, it was upstairs though that captured me attention. I have to go and meet Paul and Heather now in The Parlour, but I’ll talk about the upstairs soon.