ANY WRITER will tell you that they spend a lot of time researching. Researching things to do other than writing, that is. And recently I’ve been researching property in Barcelona.

While buying in the Catalan capital is not cheap, for the price of a one-bed flat in London you get sun, sea, great architecture, fantastic nightlife, skiing less than two hours away, and perhaps even a second bedroom. As someone who needs only a laptop for work, I can live where I like, and I do like Barcelona. Besides, surely the city that inspired Picasso to create some of his greatest works can do the same for a lowly novelist like me.

But how best to go about buying somewhere? When I lived in Málaga, my experience with Spanish estate agents wasn’t great — very little in the way of decent property ever seemed to turn up, and often they didn’t either.

I tentatively check Loquo, the website where most private sellers advertise, but find the details they provide somewhat hard to decipher.

What’s more, the few that include a couple of photographs all seem to insist on providing a picture of their lavatory — which doesn’t give me much to go on.

I decide that while there are many things I’m prepared to buy online, a flat isn’t one of them. I’m going to have to hit the streets, and go the agency route. I call a few, arrange some viewings, and armed with a city map, my mobile, and my basic Spanish, I book a flight to Barcelona and prepare to do some legwork. I’ve only given myself four days, but how hard can it be?

Monday The first apartment in the Gothic Quarter is a basement. It has only two windows, and neither opens nor seems to let in any light. Next, after negotiating a staircase that would make Chris Bonington blanch, I view a near-derelict attic that my agent tells me (after several puffs on her inhaler) needs “reforming”. I wonder whether that means “condemning”.

Then it’s on to a flat in the Poble Sec district that has potential, although again it’s up another Eiger-like staircase, and the roof terrace is more “roof” than “terrace”. Finally, on the way back, the agent insists I see a flat in a building she describes as “gaudy”, but when I get there, I realise she means Gaudí. The architecture is so stunning that I expect to find a man at the door selling tickets, which explains why it’s double my budget. I decide not to make any offers.

Tuesday I go to see an apartment that apparently has a balcony with a view of the cathedral. A view of the side of the cathedral wall would be more like it, as it’s less than 5ft away. Then it’s on to Gracia, which my estate agent tells me is where many writers live. Given the price of the flat we’re viewing, I can’t see how, unless they’re all Dan Brown. It’s large, sunny and loft-style , but it’s on a busy road, and I can’t hear what the owner is saying because the windows are open and there’s a lot of noise from cars and mopeds roaring by downstairs. It’s not quite a peaceful writer’s refuge.

On the way back, we pass a group of locals doing the sardana, the traditional Catalan folk dance. It’s a bit like a Highland fling but on Valium, the dancers being led round and round in circles, rather like my property search.

Wednesday By now, I’m starting to decode property details. A loft apartment is a flat where they’ve effectively knocked down all the walls to create an impressive living space — but the price tag is often equally as impressive.

“Loft-style”, which falls within my budget, means the apartment isn’t even big enough to have a separate kitchen and living room, so instead they just stick a cooker and a sink in one corner of the lounge. “Balcony” generally means that you can open the floor-to-ceiling windows and that, if you’re lucky, there’s a waist-height bar to stop you falling into the street, whereas a “terrace” means that you might have space for a table or chairs, but not both. And a “private roof terrace” is just that — except you share it with the television aerials and satellite dishes of your neighbours. I see four flats in the morning, all awful, including one next to Gaudí’s unfinished masterpiece, the Sagrada Familia. My estate agent tells me it’s be completed by 2030. I wonder to myself whether I’ll have found anywhere suitable by then.

Next, my agent and I head to Raval, where, smiling at people I assume are the owner and her daughter, I climb the stairs to what turns out to be the perfect apartment. It’s bright, spacious, and surprisingly within budget. When I ask why it’s so cheap, I find out that we’re apparently in the middle of Barcelona’s red light district. Worryingly I find myself still considering it, although I’m careful not to smile at anyone on the way out. In desperation, I call round as many other estate agencies as I can, but no one is available. In fact, the whole city has gone into party mode thanks to Barcelona’s victory against Arsenal in the Champions League final.

Thursday After a sleepless night, partly through nervousness but mostly thanks to the jubilant drum-beating Barcelona fans outside my bedroom window, I eventually get hold of my hung-over agent and arrange a second viewing on the flat I saw on Monday in Poble Sec. It’s big enough, it’s quiet, and more importantly, it’s on budget. I make an offer . . .

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