Our beautiful stone cottage was not to be. Sigh.
The process of buying a property in Scotland is a wee dilly, like lots of things oover here.
When you've found the property of your dreams, you have to contact your solicitor and through him/her, either make an offer on the place, or register a note of interest. Sounds straightforward so far? It's not.
Houses are advertised as either 'Offers Over...' or fixed price. If you and 15 other hopefuls like a place, and say you've all put in offers or notes of interests, the sale moves to a closing date. And on the day of the closing date - everybody by this time has put in an offer - the seller decides who gets the prize. Charming. And once you've put an offer in, you have to wait to hear whether you've got the house or not, because, if your offer is the lucky one to be accepted, you are bound by law to buy the place. Except if your mortgage is not approved or five million other things that can still go wrong.
In effect, you bid on a place and hope for the best, like gambling. And don't think if you put in a monstrous offer just because the abode is your heart's desire, it will necessarily be accepted. The seller can choose anybody's offer, so if he/she doesn't like your name or solicitor, tough.
But the sun is shining today, always worth a mention!
Monday, 23 July 2007
Thursday, 12 July 2007
Hoose hunting
How does one buy a hoose in Scotland?
1. Search for a property. We have big dreams, and had a look at this.
It comes with its own island, which is handy, but alas, we lost all our money betting on Floyd Landis last year.
2. So onto something more modest.
This was perfect, within our price range, but unfortunately I would have had to commute 4 hours per day to work.
3. A more realistic proposition for our part of Scotland was this:
But we felt faint at the idea of committing ourselves to suburban bliss at this tender age.
4. We decided to make an offer on this.
Please, please please, let it be ours!
1. Search for a property. We have big dreams, and had a look at this.
It comes with its own island, which is handy, but alas, we lost all our money betting on Floyd Landis last year.
2. So onto something more modest.
This was perfect, within our price range, but unfortunately I would have had to commute 4 hours per day to work.
3. A more realistic proposition for our part of Scotland was this:
But we felt faint at the idea of committing ourselves to suburban bliss at this tender age.
4. We decided to make an offer on this.
Please, please please, let it be ours!
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
More tales
I am managing to tear myself away from Facebook for long enough to update this blog. Back to ol' Scotland. We went to the Bruce Festival in Dunfermline, and it took place in Pittencrieff Park. This park is most beautiful, somebody is keeping it in a mint condition, and it has a nice tale. Apparently Andrew Carnegie, as a wee lad, wanted to enter the park, but because he came from a poor family, he was not allowed in. His revenge was to become super-rich, purchase the park and open it up for everybody, entrance free.
For more on the park, please click here
The Bruce Festival was modest, with volunteers parading around in medieval costumes. This lady explained how the poor folk were mostly vegetarian during those times. You were lucky if you could afford a piece of cow or chicken! These days only the rich can afford to eat veggies.
Even though the jousting event was a re-enactment, it still quite took my breath away. The horses are huge, and the knights imposing and deadly in their armour. Here are some pics.
This is the parade beforehand to goad the masses into wild excitement:
And we cheered for the red knight, who won.
The band, Soar Patrol.
Duan having a haggis an' neeps burger. Local is lekker!!
For more on the park, please click here
The Bruce Festival was modest, with volunteers parading around in medieval costumes. This lady explained how the poor folk were mostly vegetarian during those times. You were lucky if you could afford a piece of cow or chicken! These days only the rich can afford to eat veggies.
Even though the jousting event was a re-enactment, it still quite took my breath away. The horses are huge, and the knights imposing and deadly in their armour. Here are some pics.
This is the parade beforehand to goad the masses into wild excitement:
And we cheered for the red knight, who won.
The band, Soar Patrol.
Duan having a haggis an' neeps burger. Local is lekker!!
Sunday, 8 July 2007
It's raining again
Last year was apparently a fantastic, sunny summer. This year, however, we've been blessed with an abundance of clouds and rain. Karen, my hairdresses says, 'Last year the sun shines and everybody blames it on global warming. This year, it's raining and cold all the time, and again people say it's because of global warming. Make up ye minds!'
Karen is just one of the good things that's happened to me since we've moved to this charming nook called Fife. After a disastrous, five-second cut at a local salon, the piano teacher at school told me about Karen's salon, tucked away in the most quaint of villages, Aberdour. She took a long time cutting my hair, gave me cappuccino, and after two hours we've covered family, love, sex, and surprisingly, Christianity. And my hair looks great!
It is the start of the long summer holidays and I've completed one almost-term at my new job. (From now on I'll refer to the school as "The School" until such time I can establish what my rights are re discussing my job, colleagues, students and so forth in this blog. Don't want nae lawsuit.) I enjoy the work most of the time, but there are days and moments when I want to run, screeching, from the place, snatching out chunks of hair in exasparation and frustration. What I find hardest is dealing with 13 year- olds who feel they have the right to inform me what they will and won't do in my class. MY class!!!! Of course they have a right to speak, I usually grant them that, but my patience starts wearing thin if they don't get it after the fourth or fifth time of the same discussion.
'I cannae do this. I don't wanna do this, I don't like music.' Big sulk.
'Fair enough, you've said how you've felt and I listened, but unfortunately you don't have much of a choice in the matter. Since you have to be in school - go look at the country's constitution - and since you've decided to come to this school and adhere to these rules - go check your school contract - you have to do the work, as set out in the syllabus, that I am kind enough to interpret for you in as user-friendly a manner as possible.'
But usually I say, 'Shut up and get working.'
And then the whole spectacle rolls on, of having to cajole him/her, mostly ending up handing out a punishment or detention , and so forth and so long, ad infinitum, ad nauseaum, et al. The joys of having to work with teenagers.
But apart from my struggles to establish a dictatorship, these kids are mostly great. As John Smeaton, the hero of the terror attacks on Glasgow Airport, aptly illustrates: Scots are tough, resilient, take things in their stride, and are blessed with a sense of humour as dry as puddle in a heat wave.
Karen is just one of the good things that's happened to me since we've moved to this charming nook called Fife. After a disastrous, five-second cut at a local salon, the piano teacher at school told me about Karen's salon, tucked away in the most quaint of villages, Aberdour. She took a long time cutting my hair, gave me cappuccino, and after two hours we've covered family, love, sex, and surprisingly, Christianity. And my hair looks great!
It is the start of the long summer holidays and I've completed one almost-term at my new job. (From now on I'll refer to the school as "The School" until such time I can establish what my rights are re discussing my job, colleagues, students and so forth in this blog. Don't want nae lawsuit.) I enjoy the work most of the time, but there are days and moments when I want to run, screeching, from the place, snatching out chunks of hair in exasparation and frustration. What I find hardest is dealing with 13 year- olds who feel they have the right to inform me what they will and won't do in my class. MY class!!!! Of course they have a right to speak, I usually grant them that, but my patience starts wearing thin if they don't get it after the fourth or fifth time of the same discussion.
'I cannae do this. I don't wanna do this, I don't like music.' Big sulk.
'Fair enough, you've said how you've felt and I listened, but unfortunately you don't have much of a choice in the matter. Since you have to be in school - go look at the country's constitution - and since you've decided to come to this school and adhere to these rules - go check your school contract - you have to do the work, as set out in the syllabus, that I am kind enough to interpret for you in as user-friendly a manner as possible.'
But usually I say, 'Shut up and get working.'
And then the whole spectacle rolls on, of having to cajole him/her, mostly ending up handing out a punishment or detention , and so forth and so long, ad infinitum, ad nauseaum, et al. The joys of having to work with teenagers.
But apart from my struggles to establish a dictatorship, these kids are mostly great. As John Smeaton, the hero of the terror attacks on Glasgow Airport, aptly illustrates: Scots are tough, resilient, take things in their stride, and are blessed with a sense of humour as dry as puddle in a heat wave.
Monday, 18 June 2007
Facebook alert
This blog carries a serious health warning: Facebook
You have been warned. It is addictive, causes insomnia and fierce recollections. It will keep you glued to the screen like nothing has done before.
I stumbled upon this disaster area not by chance but by a friend's invitation to have a look at her photos on Facebook. I entered the site with no idea of what to expect, and an hour later I looked up from my computer to realise that I've lost an hour of my life. Since then a few more has gone awol.
The nice part is that I've stumbled upon friends and other skeletons from my past. We reconnect, and the rest is not history (any more).
Well, if you'll excuse me, I've just discovered someone else to meet again.
(And if you've succumbed, look me up under 'Maretha Davel Joubert')
You have been warned. It is addictive, causes insomnia and fierce recollections. It will keep you glued to the screen like nothing has done before.
I stumbled upon this disaster area not by chance but by a friend's invitation to have a look at her photos on Facebook. I entered the site with no idea of what to expect, and an hour later I looked up from my computer to realise that I've lost an hour of my life. Since then a few more has gone awol.
The nice part is that I've stumbled upon friends and other skeletons from my past. We reconnect, and the rest is not history (any more).
Well, if you'll excuse me, I've just discovered someone else to meet again.
(And if you've succumbed, look me up under 'Maretha Davel Joubert')
Saturday, 16 June 2007
Another day
Another day,another blog. Our planned European trip for 2007 is off, big sigh. First we decided we couldn't do Spain anymore because I want to do the Camino di Santiago the proper way (walking), and then we had to put our plans for a lovely cycle holiday on hold due to a lack of cash.
Moving ate up all pour savings, and we thought we had it planned, sorted and ready to roar, but nope.
DUring winter they keep kids in cans here in Scotland. When we first came here all was quiet on the northern front, and then, one day, late one afternoon, somebody opened a door, and the neighbourhood was filled with the cries and jubilations of playful children. Don't know where they've kept them up to now. Not complaining, few things as life-affirming as kids at play.
Moving ate up all pour savings, and we thought we had it planned, sorted and ready to roar, but nope.
DUring winter they keep kids in cans here in Scotland. When we first came here all was quiet on the northern front, and then, one day, late one afternoon, somebody opened a door, and the neighbourhood was filled with the cries and jubilations of playful children. Don't know where they've kept them up to now. Not complaining, few things as life-affirming as kids at play.
Monday, 4 June 2007
Taking a tumble
I had my first prang on the mountain bike, unfortunately on the first time ever on a mountain biking trail. Not that it's put me off mountain biking, in fact...
As I whooshed down Pennel's Vennel, feeling invincible, I was already thinking of ways to describe the experience: almost as good as really great sex? More thrilling than sex? (but not when my husband was involved), incomparable to great sex but on the whole as incandescently exciting? You get my drift. (And my husband is one HECK of a good lover!)
But in order to avoid embarrassing my mom, who is also reading this blog, I'll step away from that metaphor. It was just fantastic.
We were taking some kids from school on an outing for tha day, as part of activity week, to the world-renowned Glentress 'The Hub in the Forest' cycling trail outside Peebles in the marvellous Scottish Borders. click this to go there The site is beautiful and feels remote even though it's only half an hour out of Edinburgh, and I felt great to be there. Scottish kids are like the rest of the population: not given to extravagant emotion without due reason - for example a teacher falling off her bike at great speed. So we were all pleasantly, quietly excited, and I managed a difficult ramp-thingy on the skills loop. Alas, even excellent advice by Dave, one of the mountain biking specialists on the trip ("when going down a steep ramp, lift your bum off the saddle and place it to the back, in order to prevent all the weight from going to the front and handlebars, and you going head-over-heels") did not prevent my fall from grace.
I went down the very easy blue freeride, at a steady pace, in control, keeping the bum behind, and then, suddenly, as I was preparing to fly down a steep incline, a ditch appeared. My bum had taken on a life of its own and I executed a classic 'headlong over your handlebars' move, well known in the annals and inventories of mountain biking, road racing and A&E departments worldwide. As I was gliding through the air, I had a sinking feeling in my gut that I was going down (pun intended) and not in a good way, and all I could think of was....my teeth. I struck the ground with my forehead, smashed my right arm and shoulder again and ended up the wrong way around, with my arm being VERY sore. Again, I felt if my teeth were intact (they were, and so much for vanity), and then gave serious attention to the pain, discomfort and loads of white spots in front of my eyes.
In retrospect, the next bit was vastly funny. The boys who witnessed my smash were hysterically trying to rally adult assistance, and I instructed Kieran to slowly put my arm in the right direction. I am very impressed that I managed to do this with the normal assuring authority in my voice, which we teachers seems blessed with as both default setting and emergency backup. Kieran was great and VERY SLOWLY helped put my arms more-or-less right by the time Malcolm, Dave and the rest arrived. My knights in shining lycra. Let me tell you, when you're feeling like shite just after a nasty crash, there is nothing as reassuring as a person in a Scottish accent telling you what to do, with assuring authority (all teachers), and who continues to laugh at your jokes. I must have been beyond hysterical, because I continued to make the silliest, most awkward jokes for quite some time.
(Malcolm: "Anything else sore or broken?" Me: "My ego". Pffffff!!!)
My dad said he's going to ask me in a week's time what I've gleaned from this experience. I've learnt that I make jokes in an emergency, that I cry only when speaking to my husband, and that I am excessively grateful to live in a country where people have a wicked sense of humour.
I ended up in hospital for one night, observation only, my right arm is still sore as I'm typing away (and in a sling, will keep you posted) and my bike is ok. Here is a pick to keep the sympathies flowing:
As I whooshed down Pennel's Vennel, feeling invincible, I was already thinking of ways to describe the experience: almost as good as really great sex? More thrilling than sex? (but not when my husband was involved), incomparable to great sex but on the whole as incandescently exciting? You get my drift. (And my husband is one HECK of a good lover!)
But in order to avoid embarrassing my mom, who is also reading this blog, I'll step away from that metaphor. It was just fantastic.
We were taking some kids from school on an outing for tha day, as part of activity week, to the world-renowned Glentress 'The Hub in the Forest' cycling trail outside Peebles in the marvellous Scottish Borders. click this to go there The site is beautiful and feels remote even though it's only half an hour out of Edinburgh, and I felt great to be there. Scottish kids are like the rest of the population: not given to extravagant emotion without due reason - for example a teacher falling off her bike at great speed. So we were all pleasantly, quietly excited, and I managed a difficult ramp-thingy on the skills loop. Alas, even excellent advice by Dave, one of the mountain biking specialists on the trip ("when going down a steep ramp, lift your bum off the saddle and place it to the back, in order to prevent all the weight from going to the front and handlebars, and you going head-over-heels") did not prevent my fall from grace.
I went down the very easy blue freeride, at a steady pace, in control, keeping the bum behind, and then, suddenly, as I was preparing to fly down a steep incline, a ditch appeared. My bum had taken on a life of its own and I executed a classic 'headlong over your handlebars' move, well known in the annals and inventories of mountain biking, road racing and A&E departments worldwide. As I was gliding through the air, I had a sinking feeling in my gut that I was going down (pun intended) and not in a good way, and all I could think of was....my teeth. I struck the ground with my forehead, smashed my right arm and shoulder again and ended up the wrong way around, with my arm being VERY sore. Again, I felt if my teeth were intact (they were, and so much for vanity), and then gave serious attention to the pain, discomfort and loads of white spots in front of my eyes.
In retrospect, the next bit was vastly funny. The boys who witnessed my smash were hysterically trying to rally adult assistance, and I instructed Kieran to slowly put my arm in the right direction. I am very impressed that I managed to do this with the normal assuring authority in my voice, which we teachers seems blessed with as both default setting and emergency backup. Kieran was great and VERY SLOWLY helped put my arms more-or-less right by the time Malcolm, Dave and the rest arrived. My knights in shining lycra. Let me tell you, when you're feeling like shite just after a nasty crash, there is nothing as reassuring as a person in a Scottish accent telling you what to do, with assuring authority (all teachers), and who continues to laugh at your jokes. I must have been beyond hysterical, because I continued to make the silliest, most awkward jokes for quite some time.
(Malcolm: "Anything else sore or broken?" Me: "My ego". Pffffff!!!)
My dad said he's going to ask me in a week's time what I've gleaned from this experience. I've learnt that I make jokes in an emergency, that I cry only when speaking to my husband, and that I am excessively grateful to live in a country where people have a wicked sense of humour.
I ended up in hospital for one night, observation only, my right arm is still sore as I'm typing away (and in a sling, will keep you posted) and my bike is ok. Here is a pick to keep the sympathies flowing:
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