May5th The grass is already a deep, fresh green and the morning dew still clings to the patio panes. James and I have finally started to think seriously about letting the cottage out ourselves, without a letting agent. The idea has been simmering for weeks; friends have warned us about hefty commissions and online forums are full of complaints about agents. More than that, we want to decide ourselves who can be trusted with the house that has been our familys summer base for the past fifteen years.
Remember, a cottage isnt just a few square metres, James says, trimming the dry raspberry canes and glancing at me. Wed like people to treat it with respect, not as a cheap hotel.
I dab my hands on a towel and nod from the porch. This year well be staying in town longer because our daughter, Lily, is starting a crucial year at university, and Ill be helping her settle in. The cottage would sit empty almost the whole summer, yet the upkeep costs would remain. The solution feels obvious.
After dinner we walk through the rooms, the familiar route now seen with fresh eyes: what needs tidying, what should be stored away so we dont tempt strangers with unnecessary clutter. We pack books and family photos into boxes and tuck them on the high shelves, fold fresh linen into neat stacks, and on the kitchen side I sort the crockery, leaving only the essentials.
Lets document everything, James suggests, pulling out his phone. We photograph each room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle leaning by the shed just in case. I jot down details: number of pots, the type of duvet covers, where the spare set of keys is kept.
By lunchtime the first May showers have turned the yard into a series of puddles. We post the ad on a local lettings website. The photos turn out bright; through the windows you can see tomato vines already stretching up the greenhouse, and dandelions blooming along the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first enquiries feels both nervewracking and oddly exciting, like waiting for guests when everything is ready but you have no idea who will walk through the door. Calls come quickly: some ask about WiFi and TV, others whether dogs or children are welcome. I answer honestly and in detail I once searched for a summer let myself and know how the little things matter.
The first tenants arrive at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold son and a mediumsized Labrador they assure me is completely quiet. We sign a simple agreement on the spot a sheet of paper with our names, passport numbers and the payment terms. Im a little uneasy; the contract isnt registered with any agency, but it seems sensible for a shortterm let.
The first few days go smoothly. I drop by once a week to check the garden and water the tomatoes in the greenhouse, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread from town. The family is pleasant: the boy waves from the kitchen window, the dog greets me at the gate.
After three weeks, however, the rent payments start to lag. At first they blame forgetfulness or a bank error, then they start inventing unforeseen expenses.
Now were really getting nerves, James mutters as he scrolls through the messages on his phone, the sun sinking behind the apple trees and casting golden bands across the floor.
I try to be flexible, sending gentle reminders and offering to split the overdue amount. Still, tension builds; each conversation leaves me feeling awkward and exhausted.
By midJune it becomes clear the tenants plan to leave early, still owing a portion of the rent. When they finally move out the cottage smells faintly of cigarette smoke on the porch (despite my request to smoke outside), theres rubbish under the veranda and paint splatters on the kitchen table.
See what quiet looks like now? James says, looking at the dented pantry door.
We spend the rest of the day cleaning: hauling out the trash, scrubbing the stove, loading old towels for laundry. The strawberry plants by the fence are already turning pink; I pause now and then to pick a handful of warm, rainkissed berries.
After that episode we argue for a long while about whether to keep renting at all. Should we go back to an agency? The thought of letting strangers control our cottage and paying a commission for simply handing over the keys feels wrong.
By midsummer we try again, this time being far more selective, demanding a months rent up front and spelling out our house rules in detail. The new tenants two adults and a teenager arrive on Saturday evening and immediately invite friends over for a couple of days. Soon noisy groups are staying for almost a week, laughing loudly in the garden and barbecuing until the early hours.
I call repeatedly, asking them to keep the noise down after eleven, while James checks the garden and finds empty bottles beneath the lilac bushes.
When they finally leave the cottage looks exhausted: the sofa is stained with what looks like wine, rubbish bags sit by the shed, and cigarette butts litter the base of the apple tree.
How long can we keep putting up with this? James mutters while clearing the leftover kebab bits from the grill.
I feel a growing disappointment; it seems unfair that people treat someone elses home with such disregard.
Maybe its our fault, I think. We should have been stricter about the rules.
In August another enquiry comes in: a young couple without children wants the cottage for just a week. After the previous mishaps Im especially cautious, confirming every condition over the phone, insisting on photographic evidence of the cottages condition at checkin, and demanding a security deposit.
They agree without protest; we meet at the gate on a scorching afternoon, the air trembling over the path to the shed, insects buzzing from the open windows.
At the end of their stay they reveal that theyve ruined the microwave by heating foil, and now refuse to pay for the damage.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident! the woman protests.
I feel anger for the first time all summer, but I hold back the sharp words.
Lets try to resolve this calmly, I say. Accidents happen. Lets agree on a compensation without further fuss.
After a brief discussion we settle on deducting part of the deposit for the repair, and they leave without a scene.
When the gate slams shut and the garden is left only with the heat and the hum of bees under the terrace roof, James and I share a strange mix of relief and fatigue. We both realise this cant go on.
That evening, as the sun refuses to set and long shadows from the apple tree stretch across the lawn, we sit on the patio with a notebook. The smell of fresh grass and apples hangs in the air the apples are turning from green to a soft gold, some already resting on the ground. I flip through the photos taken at the last checkin, silently ticking off everything that now needs attention.
We need a detailed list, I say without looking up. So anyone knows exactly what to leave as it is dishes, appliances, linen, rubbish.
James nods, weary from the days talks but understanding that without a clear list well be back where we started. We record that photographs should be taken together with the guests at both arrival and departure, that a deposit must be held, that key handover procedures are clear, and we outline how to use the appliances and what to do if something breaks.
We spend a long time polishing the wording we dont want it to sound hostile, we want people to feel like guests, not suspects. Every line leaves room for trust, but also sets firm boundaries. I insist the agreement includes a phone number for immediate contact if any issue arises.
Later, as the evening cools and the patio cloth is damp with dew, were no longer arguing. The new checklist is neatly copied into a diary, then entered into an Excel sheet on the laptop. The photo archive is sorted into folders: Before, After, Checkin, Checkout. It feels like a weight has been lifted, as if weve not only cleaned the kitchen table but also a corner of our own minds.
The first test comes quickly. In early August a woman calls to ask about the rules, listens carefully to the photo requirement and deposit, and confirms the details. She arrives with her husband and teenage daughter. The family appears calm, asking where the garden tools are stored, whether they can use the bike and when to water the roses by the porch.
Wed like to stay for two weeks, if thats alright, she says, signing the agreement without hesitation.
We walk through the cottage together, note the condition of the furniture and appliances. I show where spare bulbs are kept, how the irrigation pump works. They listen attentively, take pictures of each room, and even ask where the rubbish should go.
Will we be in the way if we come for the harvest? the husband asks, holding the gate open.
Not at all, I smile. Just give us a headsup.
This time everything runs smoothly. No complaints arrive over the two weeks. When I pop into the greenhouse the kitchen is spotless, and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries sits on the counter with a note: Thank you for the trust. All is well.
James peeks into the shed: the bikes are upright, tools neatly arranged, no bottles or butts on the ground. Under the apple tree someone has swept away last years fallen leaves. Even the microwave has been polished.
On the day they leave, the family meets us at the gate. We walk through the house, checking against the list. No new scratches on the furniture, the linen is washed and folded.
Thanks for the clear instructions, the lady says as she departs. It made everything easier for us and for you.
I smile, still cautious inside, but my heart feels lighter. We return the deposit without fuss. The agreement and checklist go back into the folder ready for the next season.
August fades; days grow shorter and a gentle mist settles over the beds each morning. James and I tidy the garden, picking the last courgettes and peppers, pruning the dry blackcurrant branches. The house smells of apples and fresh laundry.
This summer taught us to say no without guilt and to explain the rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist now carries a tone of care for the cottage and for the people staying in it.
Its calmer now, James admits one evening, standing at the window, watching the garden darken. I used to fear that too many conditions would scare everyone away. Now I see that honesty makes it easier for a decent person.
I smile from the hallway, a basket of apples in my hands. Trust hasnt vanished it has simply become more mature, guarded yet not shut out.
In September we list the cottage again, this time with confidence. The description details every rule and includes photos not only of the rooms and garden but also of the checklist laid out on the kitchen table.
Responses come quickly. People ask practical questions about water, heating and transport. One young man writes, Thanks for the honesty and detail its rare these days.
James and I discuss the upcoming season without the old weariness. We know peace is possible; we just have to stay attentive to ourselves and to those who come to stay in our home.
The final night before we close the cottage for the year is especially quiet. A gentle breeze brushes the garden, a distant dog barks. James locks the shed with a new hasp and returns to the patio where Im seated.
Do you think we need to add anything else to the rules? he asks.
No, I reply. Weve learned the essentials. The most important thing is to remain human.
We sit side by side, watching the orchard. A new season and new visitors lie ahead this time without the fear of losing what matters most.
