Season of Trust
In early May, when the hedgerows were flushing with fresh green and a thin mist still clung to the panes of the cottages sunroom, Emma Bennett and Thomas Harper finally began to ask themselves a hard question: could they rent out their country house themselves, without an estate agent? The idea had been simmering for weeks, fed by friends complaints about broker fees and angry threads on online forums. But the real driver was simple they wanted to decide for themselves who could be trusted with the home that had sheltered them for the last fifteen summers.
Remember, a cottage isnt just a bundle of square metres, Thomas said, snipping dry blackberry branches while stealing a glance at Emma. It deserves respect, not to be treated like a hotel.
Emma dabbed her hands on a kitchen towel, standing on the porch, and nodded. That year they had decided to stay in town longer their daughter Lucy was about to start a crucial year at secondary school, and Emma needed to be nearby to help. The cottage would sit empty for most of the summer, yet the bills would keep coming. The answer seemed obvious.
That evening, after dinner, they walked the familiar route through each room, this time with a fresh set of eyes. They decided what to tidy, what to hide away so that strangers wouldnt be tempted by unnecessary clutter. Family photographs and old books were boxed and stored on the attic shelves; fresh linen was stacked neatly; on the kitchen counter Emma kept only the essentials.
Lets document everything, Thomas suggested, pulling out his phone. They snapped pictures of every bedroom, the garden furniture, even the rusted bicycle by the shed just in case. Emma made a list of the minutiae: number of pots, the type of duvet covers, where the spare set of keys was tucked.
The next day, a sudden May shower turned the garden paths into puddles. They uploaded the listing to a popular holidayrental site. The photos turned out bright: through the windows one could see tomato vines already reaching up in the greenhouse, and dandelions were blooming thickly along the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first responses was a mix of anxiety and excitement, like the moments before guests arrive and the house is ready, yet you have no idea who will walk through the door. The phone rang quickly: inquiries about WiFi, the TV, whether dogs or children were welcome. Emma answered each query honestly and in detail she remembered how it felt to be on the other side, hunting for a place to stay, and knew that the little things mattered.
The first tenants arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold son and a mediumsized Labrador that they swore was utterly quiet. The lease was signed on the spot a simple sheet of paper with passport details and payment terms. Emma felt a flutter of nerves; legally the agreement was informal, but for them it seemed sensible the season was short and they didnt want to overcomplicate things.
The first few days passed without incident. Emma dropped by once a week to check the garden and water the tomatoes, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread from town. The family was friendly: the boy waved from the kitchen window, the dog greeted them at the gate.
Three weeks in, however, the rent started arriving late. At first they blamed forgetfulness or a bank error; soon they offered excuses about unexpected expenses.
Just what we need more nerves, Thomas muttered, scrolling through their messages on his phone while the sun slipped behind the apple trees, throwing golden stripes across the floor.
Emma tried to keep the tone gentle, sending polite reminders and even offering a splitpayment plan. Inside, though, tension grew; each conversation left a lingering awkwardness and a weary feeling that clung like damp soil.
By midJune it became clear that the tenants planned to leave early, leaving part of the rent unpaid. When they finally moved out, the cottage greeted Emma with the smell of stale cigarettes on the porch (despite a clear request to smoke outside), trash piled under the verandah, and splashes of paint on the kitchen table.
Thats the quiet Labrador for you, Thomas said, gesturing at a dented pantry door.
They spent the rest of the day cleaning in silence: hauling out rubbish, scrubbing the stove, loading grimy towels into the washing machine. The strawberry patches along the fence were already blushing with colour; Emma paused to pluck a handful of berries, warm from the recent rain.
After that episode they argued for hours about whether to keep renting at all. Should they hand the whole thing to an agency? The thought of strangers handling their beloved home, or paying a commission for simply handing over the keys, felt wrong.
By midsummer they tried again, this time screening tenants more carefully and demanding a months rent up front, along with a detailed list of house rules.
But the new experience proved no better. A family of two adults and a teenage daughter arrived on Saturday evening and immediately invited friends for a couple of days. The guests turned out to be a noisy lot, staying for almost a week, laughing loudly in the garden and barbecuing until the small hours.
Emma called repeatedly, asking them to keep the noise down after eleven, while Thomas found empty bottles hidden beneath the lilac bushes.
When the family finally left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa was stained with what might have been wine or juice, trash bags lay by the shed, and cigarette butts were scattered under the apple tree.
How much longer are we supposed to put up with this? Thomas muttered, picking at the leftover coals from the grill.
Emma felt a growing sense of disappointment. It seemed unfair that people could treat someone elses home with such disregard.
Maybe its our fault, she said quietly. We should have been stricter about the rules.
In August another inquiry arrived: a young couple with no children wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous mishaps, Emma was especially thorough. She spelled out every condition over the phone, insisted on a photo inventory at checkin, and required a security deposit.
The couple agreed without protest. They met at the gate in the scorching midday heat, the air trembling over the path to the shed, insects buzzing from the open windows.
At checkout, however, the couple claimed the microwave had broken because they had accidentally heated foil. When Emma asked for compensation, they refused, saying it was an accident.
We didnt really damage anything! the woman protested.
Emma felt anger flare for the first time all summer, but she held back sharp words.
Lets try to resolve this calmly, she said. We understand accidents happen. Lets agree on a fair repair cost.
After a brief negotiation they settled on a partial deduction from the deposit, and the couple left without a scene.
When the gate slammed shut and only the summer heat and the hum of bees remained on the terrace, Thomas and Emma shared a strange mix of relief and exhaustion. They both realized that this could not continue.
That evening, as the sun lingered and long shadows from the apple tree stretched across the garden, they sat on the verandah with a notebook. The air was scented with fresh grass and ripe apples; the orchards heavy fruit brushed the ground in a few places. Emma flipped through the photos taken at the last checkin, silently marking each item that now needed attention.
We need a detailed checklist, she said without looking up. So everyone knows exactly what to leave behind: dishes, appliances, linen, rubbish.
Thomas nodded, weary from the endless discussions but aware that without a system, they would be stuck in the same cycle. They wrote down that photographs should be taken together with the tenants at arrival and departure, added a clause about the deposit, clarified the key handover procedure, and listed instructions for every appliance.
They agonised over the wording, trying to avoid sounding hostile while still setting clear boundaries. Each line was crafted to keep the tone welcoming yet firm, leaving room for trust but drawing unmistakable lines. Emma insisted on a contact phone number in the contract if anything went wrong, the tenant could call straight away.
Later, as night fell and the verandah grew cool, the table damp with evening dew, they stopped arguing. The new checklist was copied neatly into a notebook, then entered into a spreadsheet on the laptop. The photo archive was sorted into folders: Before, After, CheckIn, CheckOut. It felt as if they had scrubbed not just the kitchen table but a hidden corner of their own minds.
The first test came quickly. In early August a woman called to ask about the rules, listened carefully to the photo inventory and deposit policy, and booked a stay. She arrived with her husband and teenage daughter. The family seemed calm, asking where the garden tools were kept, whether they could use the bicycle and when to water the roses by the porch.
Wed like to stay for two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the agreement without hesitation.
Together they walked the cottage, confirming the condition of furniture and appliances. Emma pointed out where spare bulbs were stored, how to operate the irrigation pump. The family listened, took photos, and asked where to dispose of rubbish.
Would it be a problem if we came back for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Emma replied with a smile. Just give us a headsup.
This time everything unfolded differently. No complaints arrived during the two weeks. When Emma dropped by to check the greenhouse, the kitchen was spotless, and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries sat on the table with a note: Thank you for the trust. All is well.
Thomas peeked into the shed; the bicycles were still upright, the tools neatly arranged. No bottles, no cigarette butts. Under the apple tree someone had swept away last years leaves. Even the microwave had been wiped clean.
On the day they left, the family met Emma and Thomas at the gate. Together they walked through each room, ticking off the checklist. Emma noted: no new scratches on the furniture, linen washed and folded, all dishes returned.
Thank you for the clear instructions, the woman said as they said goodbye. It made everything easier for us and for you.
Emma managed a restrained smile. Caution still lingered beneath the surface, but her heart felt lighter. They returned the security deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist were filed away, ready for the next season.
August waned, days grew shorter, and a light mist settled over the beds each morning. Emma and Thomas tended the garden, gathering the last courgettes and peppers, pruning the dry blackcurrant branches. The house smelled of apples and fresh laundry.
That summer they had learned to say no without guilt and to spell out rules without irritation. Every point on the new checklist echoed care for the cottage and for the people who stayed there.
Its calmer now, Thomas confessed one evening, standing by the window watching the dimming garden. I used to worry that too many rules would scare people away. Now I see that honesty helps the honest.
Emma smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples cradled in her arms. Trust hadnt vanished; it had simply become more mature, cautious, but still open.
In September they posted another advertisement, this time with confidence rather than anxiety. The description listed every rule, and the photos showed not only rooms and the garden but the checklist laid out on the kitchen table.
Responses arrived quickly, practical and focused: questions about water, heating, transport. One young man wrote, Thanks for the transparency its rare these days.
Emma and Thomas discussed the upcoming season without the fatigue of the past. They knew peace was possible, as long as they stayed attentive to themselves and to those who would call the cottage home for a while.
The final night before the cottage closed for the year was unusually quiet. A gentle breeze rustled through the orchard; a distant dog barked faintly. Thomas locked the shed with a new deadbolt and joined Emma on the verandah.
Think we need to add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, Emma replied, eyes on the appleladen branches. Weve learned the main things. The rest is just being human.
They sat together, watching the garden, the season ahead bright with new meetings and, for the first time, no fear of losing what mattered most.
