From Snowdrifts to the Beach: The Story of Buying a Seaside Home

This is a true story; we have changed the names to preserve confidentiality. You know how it is—everyone who buys a house by the sea asks for that…

On a December evening, while the cold wind thickened the twilight outside his window, Victor—a forty-five-year-old IT-company founder—felt a faint yet persistent desire for change. The thought of “moving to the sea” first appeared as a casual game of the mind: over dinner he would watch videos about life on warm coasts or stumble across a magazine piece on the “climate migration of the affluent.” Such moments had come and gone before, and he never imagined he would one day plan a relocation in earnest. So, as usual, he calmly set the magazine aside.

But in March the currency began to creep upward, perhaps because the news was buzzing about a new tax reform. Victor felt that familiar jolt of anxiety that makes the heartbeat faster—so in the small hours, still awake, he opened his laptop. The query “buy seaside property in Europe for a million” led him to YouTube channels run by Cypriot developers and bloggers, their videos showing turquoise water lapping lazily at the old harbour in Paphos. In that moment the image of warm sea water became personal: he could almost feel the spray of the next wave touching his skin, as if only one step remained between him and that open door to the shore.

For the next few weeks the family talked about little else. Conversations alternated with Excel screens: How much capital was it safe to draw out? How much would taxes, insurance, minor repairs cost? Spreadsheets multiplied, columns grew, and every new calculation sparked first a rush of excitement, then a stab of fear: “What if one mistake proves fatal?” The financial advisor, spectacles flashing, reassured them: five hundred thousand euros would be comfortable and would not endanger the core of their assets.

The hunt for a location began. Nice felt far too touristy, Lisbon too noisy; but Paphos instantly caught their attention—a place where everyone speaks English, the climate is steady, and the sea is within arm’s reach—and that pleasant itch of excitement took hold. New links to houses and agencies lit up the screen, and Victor sensed classic FOMO: “What if prices rise while we scroll morning to night?”

After scrolling through hundreds of listings and feeling time stretch viscously between emails from assorted “freelance agents,” Victor decided he’d had enough of wandering blind through virtual backstreets in a foreign land. He set out to find an agency with a bona-fide Cypriot licence, a real bricks-and-mortar office in the town centre, transparent contracts, and—most important—a multilingual professional who wouldn’t need him to mime the nuances of “cadastre” and “escrow.” He found exactly that: the licensed broker was a Cypriot who ran the firm with his Russian wife, herself trained in economics and law. Their emails radiated order and warmth, and Victor felt relieved—at last there was someone he could trust to guide him through the unfamiliar maze of local regulations.

He wrote down precise criteria: 180 square metres, a modest plot, a good international school nearby, and—above all—a beautiful view (for a direct sea view he might have to double the budget). After attending several webinars on real estate in different countries, Victor was convinced Cyprus ticked every box, save perhaps the promise of “cosmic” rental yields. The WhatsApp chat with the Cypriot agent buzzed day and night. The fatigue of over-choice suddenly melted into sweet satisfaction when, on the interactive map, only three red flags remained—the properties he would now see in person.

Everything crystallised that October, when Victor and his family stepped off the plane at Paphos airport. That same evening they stood on a show villa’s terrace watching the sunset pour molten gold across the horizon. Euphoria bubbled beneath the sun cream as Victor took in people basking under the gentle October light.

One morning, however, he caught himself thinking the local colour differed sharply from what he was used to: island life moved at an unhurried pace, bankers—though in suits—smiled, even the street cats crossed the road with phlegmatic composure. “Can I really live here?” flickered anxiously through his mind while the lawyer patiently explained how Cypriot property titles work.

Back home, Victor received the report: the title was clean, VAT zero, and the projected rental yield—should he ever let the place—stood at a healthy four to five percent per annum. Anxiety evaporated, replaced by an engineer’s cool clarity, and he wired the reservation deposit into escrow.

Four weeks later, nerves tightened again: the agent was still negotiating and the seller agreed to a three-percent discount—on condition of a swift closing. The surge of adrenaline is something Victor will never forget; steadying himself, he signed the Purchase Agreement, securing an additional furniture package in the bargain.

Six weeks after that, once all checks were complete and the notary placed the final seal, Victor felt the full weight of ownership settle in—a flood of pride akin to receiving a second doctorate.

Pleasant chores remained: the agents helped order furniture, the children chose curtain colours via video calls with their grandmothers. Meanwhile the application for Cypriot permanent residency made its way through the ministries as local lawyers compiled the necessary dossier.

In April, while abandoned city sloshed through slushy snow, the family greeted their first island season: the children splashed in the cool water, his wife breathed in the scent of jasmine, and Victor led a morning Zoom with his team, watching the sun climb over gentle hills and quickly warm the ribbon of sand along the sea. In that moment he understood: the journey of a year—well, a little more—had been worth every emotion lived, from tentative curiosity to the deep, sun-washed certainty of finally being home.