An Cailín Rua: Still dreaming of my own front door

Nearly two years ago, I penned a column for this paper entitled ‘All I want for Christmas is my own front door’. Back then, I considered myself as late to the property-buying party and was wondering whether I’d missed the boat.
If you’d told me then that Santa would subsequently have rejected my letter at least twice, I might have thrown my hands up in despair and put all my savings towards a motorhome. But it’s uncertain whether Santa really exists, and similarly, I am still wondering whether home ownership is just another fantasy.
Mercifully, my situation remains the same as it did back then – fortunate to have the stability of a lovely rental property in a great location, a decent landlord and a family home upon which to fall back should the worst happen. I am privileged and grateful. But it fills me with incandescent rage that many others who might not be so fortunate have seen so little progress to address what was a big crisis then and is a monumental crisis now.
Young people should not be in a position where they are forced to live apart or even delay starting a family because they can’t buy a home. Neither should anyone, young or old have to live in constant fear that their tenancy will be terminated and they will have nowhere to go. It beggars belief that so little decisive action has been taken by this government, and it is a damning indictment of the current coalition and everything for which it stands.
The availability of property to buy in my neck of the woods remains scant. Do-er-uppers are appearing, but are one step up from dereliction and expensive and time-consuming to renovate. There appears to be an abundance (relatively speaking) of large, bordering-on-mansion types, but aside from the astronomical cost, I can barely keep the windows washed in this small house, so even if the budget were bigger, the cost of Windolene would probably blow it.
In the intervening two years, prices have continued to creep up, and up, and up. Market value is what desperate people are willing to pay, rather than what a house is really worth – but that’s the nature of the beast, isn’t it? Ads by estate agents priding themselves on achieving high results for sellers are jarring, emphasising once again the dichotomy that exists in Irish society between those who own their home and those who do not. And as for those who might own more than one property? It is increasingly hard not to envy their good fortune, but envy will get you nowhere. Best to focus on one’s own journey.
As I’ve progressed on my own path, gathering the paperwork, reducing the coffee spend, selling a kidney and getting mortgage approval, I’ve become worryingly addicted to Daft.ie. I check it at least four times a day and in an unanticipated turn of events, have found myself looking forward to Mondays in case new listings appear.
I’ve experienced the excitement and anticipation of house viewings, seeing beautiful homes, lovingly maintained, gathering inspiration for the garden I one day hope to own. I have encountered the horror of rubbish piled high in long-abandoned houses, damp ceilings caved in under rotting roofs, and strange four-legged creatures peeping out of corners in which they really do not belong. I have viewed houses with 70s carpets and bathrooms in strange places and one with a fine bottle of poitín hidden under the kitchen sink. It has been an adventure, I suppose.
A few weeks ago, I found what I thought was the house of my dreams. It needed work – lots of it – but the potential was there, as was the willingness to learn via YouTube how to plaster and tile. I fell head over heels in love with this wallpapered shell of a house with a hole in the kitchen ceiling. Single-mindedly, I placed bid after bid. I made the rookie mistake of bidding more than I should have. But it didn’t matter, because I was outbid. Again. C’est la vie du house hunter.
And today, the house next door went on sale. I was the first to view. It needs less work. It feels more like home. Already, I am picturing the cat snoozing on the rug in front of the stove, imagining my parsnips growing in the garden and the turf lovingly, painstakingly saved by my father burning in the (vintage) grate. Mentally, have already painted the front door a vibrant shade of yellow (Farrow & Ball Yellowcake No 279, if you must know) and moved my favourite plant to the brightest corner of the living room.
It seems I am an insatiable romantic, at least when it comes to bricks and mortar. The asking price is within budget, but I am gearing up for another bidding war. I’ll probably lose to someone with deeper pockets or just a couple with double the budget, but I’ll give it a shot anyway.
I don’t believe in manifestation, superstition, ‘What’s for you won’t pass you’ (please, just stop), prayer, fate – any of the above. But I am putting this wish out there into the universe, in the hope that one day, I might find myself on that couch alongside the cat. Wish me luck!