Rupert & Camilla – Lord and Lady of the House of Flies

A story of polite deflection, seasonal pests, and what happens when honesty is met with silence.

No fanfare. No bitterness. Just a chapter closed.

“Some want to feel right more than they want results.”

I met Rupert and Camilla in the early days of my estate agency journey — a well-spoken, semi-retired English couple with a firm foothold in the Dordogne. They’d owned their second home here since 2009, bought back when Brexit was just a whisper and freedom of movement meant they could flit between Hertfordshire and Montignac as they pleased.

But like many British second-home owners, the post-2016 landscape shifted dramatically. At first, the shock of the referendum result was softened by the pandemic — the dream of French country living endured behind closed borders. But by 2022, as the world reopened, reality crept in.
No more spontaneous six-week stays. Stricter limits. Higher costs. Growing fatigue. And a slow realisation: the French dream was beginning to ask too much in return.

Enter Rupert and Camilla.
They were lovely — at first. Always polite, always smiling, always offering tea and biscuits. I’ve learned, however, to politely decline. Not just out of personal preference, but because that biscuit is often a hook. It softens boundaries, invites you into faux-friendship territory. And let’s be clear — I’m your agent, not your friend. My job is to guide, not to flatter.

They came from classic middle-class stock: Rupert, a successful career in finance in the City; Camilla, a devoted homemaker with roots in the Home Counties. Their Hertfordshire house, all red-brick respectability, stood a world apart from their French retreat — a unique, artisan-built wooden structure, part Alpine chalet, part plastered oddity, set among the golden stone of the Périgord. Built with Douglas spruce and chestnut, as Rupert never failed to remind me, this was a property with character — and pride stitched into every beam.

I was genuinely grateful to take it on. It was quirky, full of potential, and they trusted me to launch it to market with care. I arranged diagnostics. I guided them through septic tank paperwork. I spent hours crafting the listing text, staging the photography, and preparing the launch.

And then… we hit the price wall.
I valued the house accurately — and even generously — But they insisted on launching at way over - tacking on an extra €100,000 in pure wishful thinking. When I gently objected, I got the classic lines: “Well, if agency fees weren’t so high…” and “It’s not like this in the UK.”
Sir, our fees are in line with the industry. I’d already offered a tailored percentage. But delusion is hard to discount.

Still, we launched. That first year brought a dozen visits, one serious contender, and consistent feedback — which I passed on with care and honesty.
But by November, the house transformed. Not metaphorically — literally. Covered in flies. Black specks littered every windowsill and floor area. Each visit meant arriving early, sweeping frantically, adjusting blinds and lampshades to make the place feel alive. I did it. Every. Time.

One year on, they brought in another agency and shaved a little off the price — still far above what I’d advised. Predictably, the other agent brought no magic. No feedback. No real engagement. They stayed in the dark, while I continued managing everything.

By Easter 2025, with momentum stalling, I broached the subject again. We met in person. Talked for over an hour. They nodded, agreed, thanked me for my insight.
A week later? A U-turn. “We’ve decided to hold firm for now.”
Cue the optimism cocktail: dropping interest rates, better weather, rising tourism… Classic seller deflection, shaken not stirred.

And then came the final message.
A brief note. No thanks. No acknowledgment of the time, the effort, the honesty. Just:

“We’ve decided not to renew at this time. We’re considering our options.”

And that was that.

No mention of the two years I showed up. The visits. The feedback. The quiet effort in every season — even when the house was full of flies and the silence after each viewing said more than words ever could.

But I’ve come to understand something:
Not everyone wants to be helped.
Some want to feel right more than they want results.

And sometimes, the best thing you can do — for them and for yourself — is to step back. Let go. Let the house tell its own story now.

Because this time, I won’t be the one sweeping the flies.