We’ve bought a house, part 3
Just like that princess from the fairytales who could pee through a hundred mattresses, I’m a rather sensitive soul. In fact one of the things that spurred the hunt for our own place in Jerez was that our last rental apartment was too noisy, what with the constant processions and festivals, the peak of activity for which seemed to be beneath our bedroom window at 1 am, usually with a trombone. Actually, as Jess points out, in my case it’s not the presence of noise but the expectation that at some point soon there might be some noise that was the source of my angst, which if you’re like me is just as bad.
The new place in Calle Porvera? Bliss. Dead quiet all day and night. But then, shortly after the renos were complete and we’d moved in, came a strange and persistent whirring sound from somewhere in the bowels of the old stone walls. The building on the adjacent street was undergoing renovation and we guessed it was related – some kind of pump or compressor the builders were using. Given that we’d subjected our own neighbours to six weeks of bone-rattling reconstruction we were hardly in a position to make a fuss.
Four weeks on and it’s still there and, oddly, around the clock – so not directly related to the building work. It wasn’t loud enough to start a war, nor even to keep one awake at night. Just … enough to give you the complete shits from time to time.
Whirrrr. Silence. Whirrrr. Silence. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Silence silence silence silence. Whir.
(To get a true idea of the chronic nature of the problem, read the previous paragraph repeatedly until you’ve gotten the complete shits.)
Fortunately, our heat pump broke down. That wasn’t remotely unexpected, as apart from the microwave, it was the only one of the house’s electrical appliances to have held on since our arrival, the previous owners presumably having decided to sell the house solely based on the expected expiration date of everything within (i.e. imminently). In fact, as soon as we’d moved in we needed a new oven, new dishwasher, fridge repairs, two new toilets, new washing machine, plus one of the hotplates on our stove apparently ceased to exist. Jess is of the opinion that when something in a Spanish household is about to break down, selling up and moving is by far the most sensible way forward.
Anyway, the heat pump man was duly arranged for us by Marta, who popped in during the installation to manage the kerfuffle we would have caused if left to our own devices. I was able to introduce her to the noise as well as my own theory as to its origin (water pump on a pressure switch at the top of the list). The heat pump man agreed, having briefly descended his ladder to lend an expert ear. Marta promptly disappeared, and an hour later she sent us a video, a screenshot of which looks like this …
She had let herself in to the work zone next door and talked her way into the building’s innards to capture evidence of the whirring culprit. A natural person magnet, on her return to our apartment Marta somehow managed to bump into neighbours from several of our adjoining apartments, with the ensuing discussion to the effect that, while the noise wasn’t enough to start a war, they too were experiencing a dose of the shits from time to time (except for Nico in number 4 – he said he couldn’t hear a thing, and last we saw him he was on his way to the audiologist’s).
Anyway, this lengthy digression is simply to illustrate that after all these months we’re nearly there, settling-in wise, with little more to concern us before we can relax. Dead heat pumps and new ovens are just the cracked icing on a cake of rubble that has been reformed into one of the most delightful spaces I’ve ever lived in.
With the main internal walls knocked out the light that effuses from the front windows and internal patio bathes the house in Jerez’s yellow-and-blue ambient light. Now broadly open plan, the combined living and dining bits are spacious and friendly; that the marble staircase is now part of the space (and not hidden behind a wall) just makes the area feel even bigger. Separate kitchen? Most of my adulthood I’d have sworn that the kitchen is best when it’s a part of the living area, but I’ve changed my mind. It feels nice to disappear into another part of the house to do a bit of cooking away from the quiet of the lounge room, and of course that feels even better when the kitchen is big enough for two cooks and has an island bench where one of you can sit and listen to the other swearing about the broken fucking hotplate.
In its turn, the kitchen had also been a dark cave before the wall and patio roof came out. Now it’s as light filled as can be, to the point that we still haven’t gotten around to installing a new light fitting in the ceiling, even though it’s the middle of winter and dark at 7 pm. (Did I mention? In Spain, light fittings and curtains aren’t included in the property chattels. We arrived to a dark house with holes in the ceiling with wires poking out. Don’t worry, I poked them all back in with a stick.)
Upstairs is getting there too, with only a paint job in the bedroom to be done. We (and by we I mean Jess) are struggling with choosing a colour – we’ve decided that ‘more white’ isn’t something we’ll settle for. And apparently no one is doing whole-wall Magic Eye 3D murals any more.
I’ve something to say about tradies in this neck of the woods. They’re remarkable. Punctual, highly skilled, inexpensive. They often attend in pairs or threes, one of whom is an apprentice. Our heat pump guy Alejandro and his young offsider Manuel removed the old heat pump and installed the new one – inside and outside units – in two and a half hours, having first sourced and brought the equipment along with them. The cost for the lot was €1000; the hourly rate for two guys €35. Availability? So far, no tradie has been further than two or three days away (though I suspect this is because they’re all afraid of Marta). They even swept up after themselves, which was another confirmation that we’re not in Oz any more.
The team who did the renovations on the house was just as good. The original quote for knocking out the walls, new bathroom, refurbished patio, installing doors and windows, re-routing A/C, and removing all the rubble and waste with buckets carried out by hand to the truck parked 150 metres away, was €12,500. Did it blow out? Yep. To €15,500. BUT, this included a huge amount of extra work – not because of anything unforeseen or bad budgeting, just that along the way came more ideas. An extra wall to come out. Extra tiling and grouting. Sourcing and laying marble tiles to cover ugly gaps. Moving electrical circuits and power points. And a bunch of small but important stuff that certainly wasn’t their problem but warranted time-consuming attention nonetheless. Ninety-five per cent of the work was done on time, in under six weeks (the only blowouts came simply because of e.g. the shower screen being delayed and the marble polisher going mad and presumably having to be shot). They worked from 8 am to 4 pm five days a week.
As for the current whirrage situation, next comes six weeks of negotiations between the respective body corporates, city hall, and likely city hall’s mother-in-law, while they decide who’s responsible for the €35 we need to give to Alejandro and Manuel to repair the pump.
On Jess’s request, I shan’t be posting more photos just yet. There’s still artwork and the odd box leaning up against the walls, a few bare patchy walls, and the cat’s toilet could really use a tidy up. I thought of doing a Grand Designs-style 3D render of the before and after, but then I remembered that I have no idea how to do that. Any case, I’m hoping my letters to Vogue Style will see a professional photographer visit any day now.
