Buying a House in France

Yay! You’ve just found that 2-room hovel-of-your-dreams in the Luberon. Now what?

Go back to that bar you passed before hitting the rutted track leading to said maison de rêve. Flop down in the shade of a handy catalpa, order triple cigalis. Pour same down hatch, order refills. (Obviously you sent the helpful house agent away weeks ago, with a mumbled “don’t call us” in your best pidgin French. No matter that you actually said “your mother stinks,”—he’ll get the drift.)

Thus fortified, start using the little grey cells.

Buying

Even after the mini-boom of the last few years, France is littered with unsold properties, largely due to lunatic French inheritance laws, currently being overhauled ever-so-slowly.

Buy French, Sell Foreign. Foreigners have a habit of succumbing to le sunstroke 30 minutes into their stay, aided and abetted by the effects of Pays de Plonk. They forget everything they’ve learned at home. Like studying the local market, negotiating a lower price, doing the math(s). Think. You’re going to fork out buckets of cash, so ask yourself what you’re really getting.

Shut up. It’s an absolute gem. And a third of the price I’d pay at home. And Oh Boy! Look at the land that comes with it! Okay, so the electrics were state-of-the-art in 1920. Yeah, the roof sags a bit, but so what?

We-ell. Let’s assume you’re thinking of offering the 200k asking price.

A Frenchman would offer half. He knows there are zillions of such gems. He knows it’s going to cost a packet to turn it into Home Sweet Home.  He knows getting up there to see in the New Year will be hell. He’s still interested, but he’s no fool.

Do your improvement homework before you sign anything. One couple I recently interpreted for got a nasty shock at the eleventh hour (oops, too late) when they discovered their little jewel was in a non-building zone. The house was tiny, but they were unaware that it couldn’t be extended. Find out from la Mairie (town hall) whether the gem you have your beady eye on is, for example, in a flood plain or an area where further building is prohibited. The list of potential bad news is long – get someone to do the research for you if you’re not confident with the language. Avoid the potholes before taking the fateful step.

Local taxes vary from département to département, town to town, village to village. There are two nasty little buggers you’re obliged you pay. Taxe foncière, or land tax, is the higher. Taxe d’habitation, occupancy tax, is paid by whoever the occupier is on January 1 – owner, tenant, whoever. Tip: time your purchase carefully, say January 2, and you won’t pay any taxe d’habitation that year…

Local rates are very high in popular areas. Then there’s a separate bill for the ordures (garbage collectors), usually based on the number of registered occupiers. Once the house agent has forgiven you for the slur on maman, he’ll give you an idea of applicable local taxes. If you start a business, you’ll also have the thrill of paying taxe professionnelle, plus other even heavier unmentionables. Grrrrr.  I-Love-France.

When it comes to replacing the antique electrics, collapsing roof, crumbling walls etc, don’t listen to your nitwittish friend down the road who knows a lovely little fella (Marcel) who’ll do everything for next to nothing, so long as the nothing’s in cash. First, it’s illegal. Second, Marcel won’t have insurance, and will transform into the Invisible Man when your sockets turn into sparklers and the roof lands in your lap. Thirdly, Marcel’s cash nothing won’t be a deductible from the huge capital gain you’ve made, which is taxable if said gem is not your principal residence. On this last point, Monsieur le taxman won’t regard it as your principal residence unless you become a tax resident in France, i.e. make annual tax declarations.

In general, a village- or town-house without acres of useless land will cost you far less to buy, but may have higher local taxes.  Tip: look for a town or village with fewer facilities. Who needs the municipal piscine or cinéma? Or encore worse, a home for the elderly. Eeek. Nothing sends the local impôts soaring Hubblewards more than the presence of a home for the senior snailburger-munching classes. So look hard at that village with the bar, bakery, general store and little else.

Still upright? Okay, call the waiter over. The third bottle of Pays de Plonk tastes remarkably like Château Yquem.

Sure you really want to buy in the Luberon? France is a big, beautiful, varied country. Not that I’m knocking Provence with its gazillions of tourists, hurricane-force winds and Saudi Arabian temperatures. Nor would I put anyone off Brittany with its mystical mists and incessant rain. No more than one would sniff at shivering on an alpine piste while hordes of Parisians try to mow you down. I’ve nothing against Paris either, City of Light and heavy pollution with the politest drivers on the planet. And the most burglaries (sorry, can’t help seeing a cloud in every silver lining).

No, they’re all wonderful regions. But get the little grey cells into gear again. There’s more to France than that. Limousin, for example. Just to pick one name out of the hat. No pollution! No tourists. No hot sun. No cars. Lots of pretty brown cows. No pollution!

Depending what you’re buying, add in up to 12% for legal and registration fees. The government in all its forms takes the major slice, not the poor notaire. In general, the higher the price, the lower the percentage, and new properties attract very low costs.

How’re you doing? Oops. Okay, get the waiter to carry you back to the hotel. Sleep on it (decision, not waiter). The hovel will still be there tomorrow.

Selling

Selling the tarted-up hovel requires a different approach altogether. Ignore the above. Pretend to be out when the French know-it-all knocks. Advertise exclusively in English. Put the bread in the (bread) oven just before prospective buyers arrive, so that the heady aroma masks the noxious fosse septique aroma. Mow. Cut grass is another great olfactory diversion. Okay, all this may involve major bread consumption, but mowing reduces that bloated feeling. Make all viewing appointments at the optimum time – when the sun hits the half-finished terrace, or when shade hides that ominous damp stain. Be firm when interest is shown. Don’t give the bastards an inch.

Next: Meet your friendly notaire.
 

BUYING A HOUSE IN FRANCE (2)

At the notaire’s

If you want to buy a house in France, you can’t avoid the notaire. He’s not cheap, and he likes champagne too. He also pays huge fees to people like me to interpret notarial gobbledygook on D-Day, when you sign the final deed. I love notaires.

These are some of the things you need to know. Some, I said. Any writs/whining letters will be fed to the dog.

If you’re the purchaser, the choice of notaire is yours. You pay, you choose.  La Mairie has a list of local notaires and may suggest a name. Ignore recommendations from your nitwittish friend down the road.

The first document signing away the kids’ inheritance is the preliminary contract – le compromis de vente – signed either at the house agent’s office or at the notaire’s. You’ll be asked to produce a passport, plus marriage lines if appropriate, to prove that you are who you claim to be (grandmuzzer’s name…).

BEFORE you sign: If there is the slightest possibility that you may need to borrow to buy/tart-up your maison-de-rêve, now is the moment to mention it. Later will to too late – you’ll be stuck up that pretty gum tree in the front garden without a paddle. The agent should ask you as a matter of course. Any loan requirement will be the subject of une condition suspensive, stipulating amount, rate, duration of mortgage etc.  If you’re buying furniture or other movables, get them and their price(s) listed in the compromis. Same for any works/repairs/replacements the vendor has promised to deal with before D-Day.

Get the agent or vendor to confirm in writing that no one has a right to come into the garden to take water from the pretty well, or drive a tractor through the roses. A Frenchman’s home isn’t always his château. 

Deposit: le dépôt de garantie, usually 10%. Ask for 5%. Why tie up a ton of lolly when you can get away with half a ton? The notaire/agent can only say no, but many accept a lower deposit.

Insurance: You must arrange this before completion day – ask the agent/notaire to get you covered. Insurance is generally cheap in France.

7-day cooling-off period: after signing the compromis, you get a week to recover from the Pays de Plonk-induced folly.  When the week’s up, you’ve had it.

If the property includes agricultural land covering over 5,000 M², an organization called SAFER will be contacted by the notaire to elicit its potential interest in acquiring the property. If SAFER does not reply within 2 months, you’re home and dry on that one.

Lastly, do get the agent/notaire to spell out exactly how much you need to have in your sweaty paw on D-Day. Nothing annoys Yours Truly more than a purchaser who’s €10k short on the day. I bit the last one.

Also inform your bank well in advance re. transfer of funds to the notaire’s bank, taking account of weekends, public holidays etc. Many foreign banks seem to give the flight plan to the pigeon at the last minute. Check with your bank a couple of days in advance to avoid teeth-gnashing on D-Day.

D-Day!

This is it. You turn up at the notaire’s office, bleary-eyed (ohmygod, what have I done?), hungover, regretting last night’s escargots à l’ail.  Too late, mate. You must shake hands with the agent, your interpreter (young, slim, beautiful), the notaire, his assistant, secretary, office cleaner, the vendor, the vendor’s spouse, sisters, brothers-in-law, three cousins and close neighbor. The latter glares at you, mutters something re. the gum tree encroaching on her garden. Smile, she’ll be your close neighbor shortly.

Study the notaire. If ancient, push all the old biddies aside and grab the most comfortable chair. He’ll discuss mushroom collecting and boar hunting with the agent, vendor and hangers-on for the next three hours, breaking off at intervals to run through the 15-page document that will become your title deed. The interpreter will interpret this document. You may have to wake her up. After said dig in ribs, get her to check that your name(s), address etc. have been correctly transcribed. Don’t hesitate to ask the interpreter questions, even if they sound silly. They usually are silly, but then you’re paying her, you call the shots.

The first important provision in the completion deed (l’acte de vente) is this: unless it’s a new property, you buy ‘as is’, i.e., if it falls about your ears tomorrow morning, well, tough – you shouldn’t have listened to your nitwittish friend extolling its supposed virtues.

If the vendor has agreed to repair/replace something before D-Day, check the position a day or two in advance. Don’t complete the purchase until you’re satisfied. Nobody’s going to shoot you. Not until the hunting season starts anyway.

Local searches: these will reveal whether the darling little cottage is about to disappear under the Paris to Dakar highway, is in a classified area preventing you from painting the shutters fluorescent orange, in a flood plain, non-building zone, etc. Avoid the potholes before taking the fateful step. Do your homework.

Easements: les servitudes take many forms – specific rights of access for the glaring neighbor, the right to draw water from the well in your garden (homework, children!), and general rights such as access to the back wall if your house immediately abuts your neighbor’s property. If you want to block out the glaring neighbor with a few strategically-placed trees/shrubs, take care. Don’t plant less than 2 meters from the boundary if the tree/plant exceeds 2 meters in height. Under that height, the distance must be no less than 0.50 meters.

Joint ownership for foreigners: There are various ways of circumventing the horrible French inheritance laws that insist that the kids scoop the pool when you drop off the perch. (Why should they?) The best solution for you depends entirely on your personal situation – whether you have children, stepchildren or none at all. Whether you’re single, once-married or Elizabeth Taylor. Options include marriage contracts and tontines. Talk to the notaire well before D-Day – if you opt to deal with this when you buy rather than later, you’ll save hundreds of euros.

If you’re thinking of taking the plunge, please don’t neglect the preliminary research. You’re investing in a foreign country with a completely different legal system and customs. Take your time. And then enjoy your maison de rêve, and France. It’s a great place.