Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass had turned a deep, juicy green and the morning dew still clung to the porch glass, Olivia and Isaac finally asked themselves a serious question: should they try to let their country cottage out on their own, without any middlemen? The idea had been ripening for weeksfriends recounted tales of hefty commissions, online forums were full of sour reviews about letting agents. Yet the heart of it was different: they wanted to decide themselves who could be trusted with the house that had sheltered them for the past fifteen summers.
After all, a cottage isnt just a number of square metres, Isaac said, snipping dry raspberry stems while glancing at his wife. Id like people to treat it with respect, not like a hotel.
Olivia dabbed her hands on a towel, standing on the steps, and nodded. That year they planned to stay in the town longerOlivias daughter was about to start an important stage of her studies, and Olivia would need to help. The cottage would sit empty almost all summer, yet the running costs would not disappear. The answer seemed obvious.
That evening, after dinner, they walked through the house togetherfamiliar routes, but now seen through fresh eyes: what needed tidying, what should be tucked away so strangers wouldnt be tempted by unnecessary clutter. Books and family photographs were boxed and stored on the high shelves, fresh linen was folded into neat stacks, and in the kitchen Olivia sorted the crockery, leaving only the essentials.
Lets record everything, Isaac suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed every room, the garden bench, even the old bicycle leaning against the shedjust in case. Olivia jotted down details: how many pots, the type of duvet covers, where the spare set of keys lay.
A few days later, when a gentle May rain filled the fields with puddles, they posted an advertisement online. The pictures came out bright; through the windows one could see tomato vines already climbing the greenhouse, and along the path to the gate dandelions were blooming in thick yellow clusters.
Waiting for the first responses felt both anxious and oddly joyouslike the moments before guests arrive, everything prepared, yet the identity of the visitors unknown. Calls came quickly: some asked about WiFi and the TV, others whether dogs or children were welcome. Olivia answered honestly and in detailshe remembered what it felt like to hunt for a place herself and knew the value of minutiae.
The first tenants arrived at the end of May. A young couple with a sevenyearold son and a mediumsized Labrador, who on the phone swore the pet was utterly quiet. They signed a simple paper on the spot, listing passports and payment terms. Olivia felt a flutter of nerves: formally the contract was unregistered, yet to them it felt logicalnothing more was required for a summer stay.
The first days passed peacefully. Olivia came 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 tenants were friendly: the child waved from the kitchen window, the dog greeted her at the gate.
After three weeks, however, the rent began to lag. At first it was blamed on forgetfulness or a bank error, then on unexpected expenses.
Well, thats why were on edge, Isaac muttered, scrolling through messages on his phone at the kitchen table. Outside, the sun sank behind the apple trees, casting golden strips across the floorboards.
Olivia tried to negotiate gently, reminding them without pressure, offering a partial payment later. But the tension grew; each conversation left a lingering awkwardness and a vague, draining fatigue.
By midJune it became clear: the tenants intended to leave early, leaving part of the payment unpaid. When they moved out, the cottage smelled of cigarette smoke on the porch (despite the request to smoke only outside), trash lay under the veranda, and paint splatters stained the kitchen table.
Exactly what utterly quiet meant, Isaac said, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent the rest of the day cleaning in silence: hauling rubbish, scrubbing the stove, bundling old towels for laundry. Strawberry plants by the fence were turning pink; between chores Olivia plucked a handful of berries straight from the bedsweet and still warm from the rain.
After that episode they debated at length: should they keep trying themselves, or turn to an agency? The thought of an outsider handling their home, taking a cut for merely handing over the keys, felt wrong.
By midsummer they tried again, this time vetting tenants more carefully, demanding a months rent up front and spelling out the house rules in detail.
The new experience was no better. A family of two adults and a teenager arrived late on Saturday evening and immediately invited friends for a couple of days. The noisy parties lingered almost the whole week, laughing loudly in the yard and grilling barbecues until the small hours.
Olivia called repeatedly, asking them to keep noise down after eleven. Isaac checked the plot and found empty bottles beneath the lilac bushes.
When the family finally left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa was splashed with juice or wine beyond repair, rubbish bags sat by the shed, and cigarette ends littered the base of the apple tree.
How much longer can we endure this? Isaac muttered, sorting the remnants of the barbecue.
Olivia felt a growing disappointment; it seemed unfair that strangers treated their home so carelessly.
Perhaps its our fault, she mused. We should have been stricter about the rules
In August another enquiry came: a young couple without children wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous dramas Olivia was especially cautiousshe laid out every condition over the phone, insisted on a photographic record of the property at checkin, and demanded a deposit.
The renters agreed without protest; they met at the gate on a scorching afternoon, the air trembling over the path to the shed, the hum of insects drifting from open windows.
When the week ended, they discovered the microwave had been ruined by foil, and the tenants refused to pay for the damage.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident! the woman protested.
Olivia felt a flash of anger, but held back harsh words.
Lets try to resolve this calmly. Accidents happen. Lets agree on compensation without a fight.
After a brief discussion they settled on a compromise: the tenants left part of the deposit to cover the repair and departed without a scene.
When the gate slammed shut behind them and only heat and the low buzz of bees remained under the terrace roof, Isaac and Olivia experienced a strange mixture of relief and fatigue. They both understood: this could not continue.
That evening, as the heat lingered and long shadows from the apple tree stretched across the garden, they sat on the porch with a notebook. The scent of cut grass and apples hovered in the airheavy, blushed apples lay on the ground, some already touching the soil. Olivia flipped through the photos taken at the last checkin and silently ticked off everything that now needed attention.
We need a detailed list, she said without looking up. So everyone knows what to leave behind: dishes, appliances, linen, rubbish.
Isaac nodded. He was weary of the endless talks, but he knew that without a list things would revert to the old chaos. They noted that photo documentation should be done together with the guestsboth at arrival and departure. They added a line about the deposit, clarified the key handover procedure, and listed how to use the equipment and what to do if something broke.
They debated wording for hourstrying to avoid sounding hostile, wanting visitors to feel welcome rather than suspects. Each line left room for trust, yet set clear boundaries. Olivia insisted the contract include a phone number for immediate contact should anything arise.
Later, as night fell and the porch grew cool, the tablecloth dampened with evening dew, they stopped arguing. The new checklist was carefully copied into a notebook, then into a spreadsheet on their laptop. The photo archive was sorted into folders: before, after, checkin, checkout. It felt as if a weight had been lifted, as if they had washed not only the kitchen counter but also a hidden corner of their own minds.
The first test came without delay. In early August a woman called to ask about the rules, listened carefully to the photorecord and deposit requirements, and arranged a meeting with her husband and teenage daughter. The family seemed calm at once: they asked where the garden tools were kept, if they could use the bicycle, and when to water the flowers by the porch.
Wed like to stay two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the agreement without hesitation.
Together they toured the cottage, noting the condition of furniture and appliances. Olivia showed where spare light bulbs were stored, how the irrigation pump worked. The family listened attentively, snapped photos of rooms, and even asked where to dispose of rubbish.
Will we be a bother if we come for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Olivia smiled. Just give us a headsup.
This time everything unfolded differently. No complaints arrived during the two weeks. When Olivia checked 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.
Isaac peeked into the shed: the bicycles were still upright, tools neatly arranged. No bottles or cigarette ends littered the ground. Under the apple tree someone had swept away last years fallen leaves. Even the microwave had been wiped clean.
On the day of departure the family met them at the gate. Together they walked through the house, crosschecking the checklist. Olivia marked: no new scratches on the furniture, linen washed and stacked, everything in its place.
Thank you for the detailed instructions, the woman said as she left. It made everything easier for us and for you.
Olivia returned a restrained smile; caution still lingered inside, but her spirit felt lighter. They returned the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist went back into a folderready for the next season.
August was drawing to a close. Days shortened, a light mist settled over the beds at sunrise. Olivia and Isaac cleared the plot, gathering the last courgettes and peppers, pruning the blackcurrant. The house smelled of apples and fresh laundry.
That summer they had learned to say no without guilt and to explain the rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist now echoed carenot suspicionabout the cottage and its guests.
Its calmer now, Isaac confessed one evening, standing by the window watching the garden grow dim. I used to fear that too many conditions would drive people away. Now I see that honesty makes it easier for a decent person.
Olivia smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples in her hands. She knew trust hadnt vanishedit had turned a shade older, more cautious, but still alive.
In September they posted another ad, this time with confidence rather than anxiety. The description listed every rule, accompanied by photos not only of rooms and garden but also of the checklist spread on the kitchen table.
Replies came quickly. People asked practical questions about water, heating, transport. One young man wrote, Thanks for the honesty and detailits rare these days.
Olivia and Isaac discussed the upcoming season without the old fatigue. They understood that peace was possible, provided they paid attentionto themselves and to those who would stay in their home.
The final night before the cottage closed for the year was especially quiet. A gentle wind brushed the fields, distant dog barks echoed faintly. Isaac secured the shed with a new lock and returned to the porch to sit with Olivia.
Should we add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, Olivia replied. Weve learned the main things. Just remember to stay human.
They sat side by side, watching the garden. A new season and new meetings lay aheadno longer shadowed by the fear of losing what mattered most.
