A pipedream - but house could pay its way

HOUSE HUNTER:It's big, filthy and expensive – but a two-storey pile in Glasthule has views of Dublin Bay and a bottom floor you could rent, writes DON MORGAN

AS THE country wades through a flood of bad industrial feeling and even worse weather, we’re taking evasive action. As our compatriots climb onto roofs, stockpiling water and boiling sandbags, anxious not to confuse the two instructions from the Civil Defence, we’ve been busy daydreaming about a two-storey pile in Glasthule.

It’s a total pipedream. But as many pipes burst in the floods, we’re going to dream, perchance to buy a house. All we need is ingenuity. And cash.

Maureen found the house. To be honest, I wouldn’t have given it a second’s thought. The asking price is way beyond our budget. But, as the car gets paid off, the house in Carlow gets rented out – or swept away in the rain – maybe it’s not such a crazy notion at all. We could make the repayments, given the right circumstances.

We brought house-hunting into the preserve of commando-style escapades, and although we survived the gunfire from security guards, I was nearly a goner, mauled by what I thought was an Rottweiler, but which was in fact a privet hedge, and was fictional anyway.

We made an appointment to view the house, as Maureen’s eyes, which are very sparkly anyway, were practically incandescent as the idea of living in a period residence in a prime location took hold in the firmament of her imagination.

On myhome.ie, the house looks benign, charming even. On viewing it in the dark, we saw the odd chipped window frame and took no notice. It wasn’t really the warning we were looking for. We were shown around by an agent who knew us from early on in our search, when prices weren’t as competitive as they might be now, and when we, frankly, were even more clueless than now.

At the viewing, we discovered that every silver lining has a cloud, or the other way around, depending on who you were talking to. My engine was purring like crazy, as I became acquainted with a house which had all the cleanliness of Father Jack’s armchair.

Similarly, either an amateur model monorail enthusiast had perished in the house, or a stairlift had been fitted on a potentially gorgeous main staircase. But that was nothing compared to what lurked in the basement.

As we came down the staircase, which felt like damp Ryvita underfoot, a huge, eight-legged pendulum dangled in front of my nose. I wanted to leave. Maureen’s view, on the other hand, was the exact opposite of what I have just outlined. Which is why minutes sometimes need to be kept to give an objective representation of what actually happened.

Not far off calling me a big girl’s blouse, she was in love with every filthy inch of it. And in fairness, when I actually got over myself, so was I, with the view out the back.

It just so happens that the view is of Dublin Bay, as much a part of the capital’s fabric as the GPO, Jimmy O’Dea and chewing gum on the pavement.

That was the first moment I thought I might be wrong, which indeed I am. In the car, and every time we’ve discussed this house since, I’ve realised what a stick in the mud I’ve become.

“Teachery”, someone observed, in recognition of my other incarnation. It’s true, I am that and need to break out. I was busy extolling the virtues of a three-bed semi on planet ordinary.

Maureen, on the other hand, outlined ways in which we could snag this bad boy out from under the noses of speculators and men in jeeps if they still roam the southside looking for houses to rui. . . renovate.

The plan is fiendishly simple. If we buy the house, we clear out the building, which honestly hasn’t much wrong with it, bar giant spiders. Once it’s cleaned, who cares how it’s furnished, you’ve the rest of your life for that.

Then, you rent the bottom floor as an apartment or commercial premises. There may be drawbacks, of course, but if it pays its way, it would definitely be worth it.

In a market with all the kick of a Sylvia Plath poem, property investment would be a means to an end: letting ordinary folk like us live in a plush gaff is one hell of an end.