Living In France - Buying Your Rented Property
When I moved to France I had every intention of buying in the southwest, but having been offered a short-term winter let near Vence, in Alpes-Maritimes, I quickly made friends and came to love the area. Knowing that house prices were way out of my league, I decided to carry on renting. I’d already taken one great leap – quitting my job in England to write – so why not go the whole hog? I had years ahead of me to buy.
Then, as I was looking for a long-term rental, I found my ‘coup de cœur’, or dream home: a one-bedroomed flat on the ground floor of a villa divided into three, with its own wrap-around terrace, spacious garden and stunning views of the valley and sea.
It wasn’t perfect – the entrance, for example, was past the front door of the upstairs flat, down a narrow passageway and straight through the second flat’s patio. But once past the circuitous route, the view and privacy were outstanding. This was somewhere I could really call home.
Five years on, however, I didn’t like to tot up how much I’d paid in rent, or to think about the houses I could once have afforded in the southwest. Then one day my neighbour called round. Our septuagenarian, poker-playing landlady had died, leaving no children and no will. Her ageing brother and sister inherited death duties of up to 60 per cent and a rented property about which they knew nothing. They’d have to sell, they told us after the funeral. They would send round an expert to value the apartments, and we were to point out their flaws.
I did a good job. The drains were constantly clogged, my bathroom was damp and the wall under the main drive about to collapse. Then there was the illogical and long-winded route just to reach my front door.
Despite learning that as tenant I’d be given first option to purchase, and at a 30 per cent discount at that, I knew it was still out of my league. My capital was running down and my income not regular enough to obtain a mortgage. And as if that wasn’t depressing enough, my lease was up for its six yearly renewal, putting me in a vulnerable position.
The standard procedure in France is to sign a lease for three years, which is automatically renewed for six and then nine years. While the tenant can give three months’ notice at any time, the landlord has to give six, and can only do so before the end of each three-year term. My lease was to reach six years in May of the following year, so any notice had to be served by mid-November.
Notice to quit
On 26 October, a man I believed to be the neighbours’ plumber appeared at the gate. He was, in fact, a bailiff, presenting me with a document called a congé de fins de vente. ‘You’re served notice to leave this flat,’ he told me as I held back the tears. ‘Or you could buy it,’ he suggested helpfully, turning the page and pointing to a figure. We both did a double take. The asking price was half what I’d expected, and just within my reach. You haven’t seen a quicker signature.
I had two months to accept the offer and two months from then in which to complete, unless I needed a mortgage, in which case I had four. The description of the property I was being offered, however, was vague, as the wording had been taken straight from the lease. It didn’t mention my parking space and referred only to une partie du jardin, or a part of the garden, being included in the sale. Seeing as I was the only tenant who had access to the garden and who had been maintaining it, exactly which partie I was entitled to was something I was keen to clarify.
My notaire informed me that by law owners have to sell on the same basis as the lease, and therefore all practical arrangements enjoyed by the tenant had to be respected, but that still didn’t explain my position with the garden. I met with the owners again. Was the parking space included in the deal? Yes, of course it was. Could I have the right to create a new access and steps at the far end, to avoid the circuitous route? Yes, absolutely I could. How much of the garden would I be entitled to? That was for the géomètre, or surveyor, to decide.
I wrote the letter of acceptance, reiterating the points raised in the meeting. This, I learnt later, took the place of the compromis de vente, and I did not need to put down the ten per cent deposit usually required. By Christmas my fellow tenants had been given verbal quotes for their apartments, but as neither of their leases were due for renewal, no formal notice. I felt like a crash test dummy.
The family informed us that the drains and wall were to be paid for by the coproprieté we were all becoming, and that it was because of these problems that our asking prices had been so low. So we were all puzzled when, a few weeks later, someone came to install a new drain network and the dodgy wall was fixed. The drains, we were now told, were the family’s responsibility, the wall the tenants’. I didn’t understand the distinction, but being reluctant to rock the boat, just accepted it.
Next, the géomètres came. They took three days to measure each flat and the garden, which we all now understood was to be divided proportionally. Ever hopeful of a generous share, I made it clear that I was the one who’d been paying for its annual débroussaillement, or pre-summer strimming that’s required in this area to prevent fires, but restrained myself from offering them any of the jam I’d made from the fruit trees they were recording.
Major battle
Weeks later, the owners arrived with the plans, and I could barely believe my eyes. I was to get none of the garden! Seeing as neither of the other tenants had une partie du jardin written in their leases, I thought I’d been pretty generous giving up any of it as it was, but to be left with nothing? Expecting a major battle I began protesting, only to be met with the question, ‘so how much do you want?’ I can only imagine that the owners had been trying to make the other flats more attractive to outsiders should the tenants not wish to proceed, and that the surveyors were just following their request. We simply agreed on a chunk and the plans were revised.
Despite my initial shock, the plans did make for interesting reading. The land was meticulously detailed down to the last wall, tree and drain, and colour-coded to represent ownership and communal areas. On separate sheets, each flat was drawn to scale. The entire property was divided by 1,000, with each ‘lot’ being assigned a proportion of this. A small flat, for example, might be assigned 154 points, its garden 72, parking space 7 and the cave, or cellar, another 6, making 239 points out of 1000. Thus, that owner’s share of any future copropriété costs would be 23.9 per cent.
There were one or two surprises, however, including a public right of way at the far end of the garden, and the fact that the land we’d all agreed would become my new entrance actually belonged to the house next door!
The sale dragged itself out to the summer, by which point more ‘experts’ had visited to check for termites and asbestos, as is standard with most sales, and health and safety issues, for the copropriété. They checked the foundations, walls, floors, ceilings, roof, electricity, plumbing and drains, happily finding nothing wrong. They did insist, however, that fences and handrails be erected around the communal areas.
My new entrance and steps, safely on communal land, are almost finished now, and have made life much easier. The other tenants are due to complete their purchases shortly and then we’ll begin life as a copropriété together. I have no doubt there’ll be further hiccups along the way, but the hardest part is surely over, and I’m thrilled to have finally bought my very own piece of France.
Five copropriété rules I think we’ve all already broken:
1 Doormats, if placed on a landing, should conform to a style agreed upon by the syndication
2 No laundry to be hung out from windows or balconies, either overlooking the road, garden or corridors
3 No objects to be placed on window ledges without being fixed. Vases of flowers, even on balconies, should be placed on watertight stands so as not to inconvenience passers by or neighbours
4 Police rules should be observed when beating or shaking rugs and bedding
5 All deliveries into the building of provisions, dirty materials or bulky matter should be made before 10am
Rules of engagement
A law dated 10 July 1965 sets out what in France constitutes a condominium, or as the up-to-date English lawyer would call it, a commonhold. A copropriété exists when one or more buildings are divided among two or more owners, each of whom has sole title to one or more private units (lots) and a proportionate share in the common areas.
This may apply to an apartment, office or mixed block or to an estate (commercial, industrial or residential). Once a surveyor has physically described each private unit and all common areas in detail, individual title numbers are allocated to them and a list is filed at the land registry by the owner of title to the whole property; the individual units may then be sold in freehold.
Each freehold owner also owns a number of shares in the common areas and is also expected to contribute to common charges (general upkeep, structural repairs, insurance, lighting, heating and cleaning of common areas, concierge etc).
The owners are organised into a syndicate which functions according to the house rules laid down in the general covenants (règlement de copropriété) governing use of both private and common areas. Some of these rules may be restrictive (for purposes of safety, tidiness and abatement of nuisance), but most concern the running of the property and collection of contributions to common charges.
The house rules are also published at the land registry and are very difficult to amend afterwards so it is essential for any purchaser to acquaint him or herself with them to discover how life in common is to be organised and paid for.
These house rules are generally administered by a syndic, who is often, but not always, a professional property manager elected by the owners in an annual general meeting, generally when they approve the annual accounts.
By Sean Pilcher, Girlings Europe