I thought I had seen it all, having been an auctioneer for 36 years, following my father into the profession and selling my first lot when I was 17.
Symonds & Sampson is a typical firm of country chartered surveyors, long established with firm roots in the agricultural community. It once ran the largest calf market in Europe.
Michaelmas and Lady Day were key dates in our calendar, when tenancies changed hands and calving was at its peak.
There would be weeks when I was auctioneering six days out of seven: livestock markets on Monday and Friday (three lots a minute, which is not as difficult as it may seem), two days at farm dispersal sales of livestock and machinery, furniture sales on a Wednesday and then some freelance selling of boats on a Saturday.
A young farmers’ harvest supper on a Saturday night would never be complete without an invitation, usually at about 11pm, to auction a “night out with the chairman”, or a lively ferret.
Auctioning property is a serene experience compared with the bear pit of the livestock market. The noise and movement of incontinent animals and the speed of bids from gnarled, professional abattoir owners is not for the faint-hearted, and both buyers and sellers can be unforgiving.
It gave me a unique grounding, but I left behind the hurly-burly of the livestock market for the peace of the property auction, and nothing could surprise me until a sale a few years ago.
Our auctions are held in a hall with a capacity of 300 but, as there is little to do on Friday afternoons in Dorset, we time our sales so that everyone can get home in time for Countdown. The events often attract crowds of 400.
On this occasion we had 675 people crammed into the room and I knew, or was related to, most of them.
I offered lot one with a guide of £15,000 and a man on my left, whom I did not know, bid once but did not buy.
He repeated this on the next four lots but bought lot six for £324,000. All was well until he came to sign the contract and realised he did not have his cheque book, offering us a saddle as a deposit instead.
He agreed to meet the solicitor in a small country town at 4pm and said he would have a banker’s draft ready for him. However, he did not show up, and there were inconsistencies in the information he provided on his buyer’s form.
I was telephoned by the solicitor at 6pm telling me we were not in funds and suggesting we sell to the underbidder. That was going to be difficult.
I rang the number on the buyer’s form and learned that he was in deepest Dorset mending a tractor in the yard.
By the time I found the farm, talked to our buyer for half an hour and helped him find the banker’s draft, I was able to call my relieved client and still be at a farmers’ dinner in time to auction a trailer load of dung at the end of the evening.
But the buyer’s sister rang me to ask for the deposit to be returned because her brother had been sectioned the day before. My client would not agree and kept the 10% deposit. Lawyers were instructed and the case was heard at Bristol court four years later.
The judge determined that, even though we had a psychiatrist’s statement following an examination on the Monday after the sale, nobody could know whether the buyer was of unsound mind the previous Friday and my client could keep the deposit. His legal fees totalling more than £30,000 were paid by the buyer.
It was a sad story for the buyer, but there may be lessons that can be learned for the provincial auctioneer.
In the country, the handshake and “word is my bond” tradition is still respected. We used to know everyone, including who was sound for the money or NBG (no bloody good), but at our last sale 300 people attended and I barely knew 10 of them.
Time, perhaps, for the rural agent to be less trusting and complacent. After all, not every problem can be solved by tracking down the buyer in a farmyard.
Mark Lewis is a partner and head of agency at Symonds & Sampson
