Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass had turned a deep, luscious green and the morning dew still clung to the verandah panes, Emma Turner and her husband James Harper finally began to wonder whether they might rent out their cottage themselves, without any middlemen. The idea had been fermenting for weeks, fed by friends tales of agency fees and angry forum posts about estate agents. More than anything, they wanted to decide for themselves who could be trusted with the house that had sheltered them each summer for the past fifteen years.
Remember, a cottage isnt just a number of square metres, James said, snipping dry raspberry canes and glancing at Emma. Wed like people to treat it with respect, not as a cheap bedandbreakfast.
Emma dabbed her hands on a towel while standing on the porch and nodded. That year they would stay in town longerher daughter Clara was starting a crucial stage of her studies, and Emma needed to help. The cottage would sit empty for most of the summer, yet the upkeep costs would not disappear. The solution seemed clear.
That evening, after dinner, they walked through the housea familiar route now seen through a fresh lens: what needed tidying, what should be hidden away so that strangers wouldnt be tempted by excess. Books and family photographs were packed into boxes and stored on the loft, fresh linen was folded into neat stacks, and in the kitchen Emma pared down the crockery to only the essentials.
Lets record everything, James suggested, pulling out his phone. They snapped pictures of each room, the garden bench, even the old bicycle leaning by the shedjust in case. Emma noted the minutiae: number of saucepans, the patterns of the duvet covers, where the spare set of keys lay.
Later, when a sudden May shower turned the driveway into puddles, they posted an advert on a local rental site. The photographs were bright; through the windows one could see tomato vines already reaching for the greenhouse roof, and dandelions blooming thickly along the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first replies felt both anxious and oddly joyful, like preparing a house for guests when you never know who will cross the threshold. Calls came quickly: some asked about WiFi and the TV, others about dogs or children. Emma answered each query honestly and in detailshe remembered searching for a place herself and understood the value of small particulars.
The first tenants arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold son and a mediumsized Labrador they assured was absolutely quiet. The lease was signed on the spota simple sheet with passport details and payment terms. Emma felt a flutter of nerves; formally the agreement was unregistered, but to them it felt sensible for a seasonal let.
The first days passed peacefully. Emma visited once a week to check the garden and water the tomatoes, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread from town. The tenants were friendly; the boy waved from the kitchen window, the Labrador greeted them at the gate.
After three weeks, payments began to slip. At first the excuses were forgetfulness or bank errors, then vague stories of unexpected expenses.
Just what we needmore nerves, James muttered, scrolling through messages on his phone as the sun slipped behind the apple trees, casting golden bands across the floor.
Emma tried to negotiate gently, reminding them softly, offering to split the sum later. Yet the tension rose; each conversation left a lingering sense of awkward fatigue.
By midJune it became clear the tenants intended to leave early, leaving part of the rent unpaid. When they moved out, the cottage smelled of cigarette smoke on the porch (despite a request to keep smoking outside), trash littered under the verandah, and paint splatters marred the kitchen table.
Absolutely quiet Labrador, indeed, James said, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent most of the day cleaning: taking out rubbish, scrubbing the stove, washing old towels. The strawberry patches along the fence were already blushing with colour; between chores Emma plucked a handful of warm, rainkissed berries.
After that episode they debated long and hard: should they keep renting at all? Perhaps they should hand the keys to an agency? The thought of strangers dictating the use of their homeor taking a cut for merely handing over a set of iron keys felt wrong.
By midsummer they tried again, choosing tenants more carefully, demanding a months rent up front and spelling out rules in detail.
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 visitors stayed almost the entire week, laughing loudly in the yard and grilling barbecues until the small hours.
Emma called repeatedly, pleading for quiet after eleven, while James found empty bottles beneath the lilac bushes.
When the family finally left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa was stained with juice or wine beyond repair, rubbish bags sat by the shed, and cigarette ends lay beneath the apple tree.
How much longer can we endure this? James muttered, sorting through the remnants of the barbecue.
Emma felt a growing disappointment, as if it were unfair that people could treat anothers home so roughly.
Perhaps were at fault? We should have been stricter about the rules
In August another enquiry arrived: a childless couple wanted the cottage for a week. After the earlier dramas Emma insisted on a full briefing over the phone, a photo record of the property at movein, and a security deposit.
The tenants agreed without protest; they met at the gate in the sweltering noon, the air trembling above the path to the shed, insects humming from open windows.
At the end of their stay they claimed to have damaged the microwave by heating foil, yet refused to pay for it.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident! the woman protested.
Emma felt a flash of anger, but held back harsh words.
Lets resolve this calmly. Accidents happen. Lets agree on compensation without a fight.
After a brief discussion they kept part of the deposit for repairs and left without a scene.
When the gate slammed shut and only heat and the buzzing of bees remained under the terrace roof, James and Emma felt a strange mix of relief and weariness.
They both understood that this could not continue.
That same evening, as the heat lingered and long shadows from the apple tree stretched across the garden, they sat on the verandah with a notebook. The scent of cut grass and apples hung in the airripe fruit hanging low, some brushing the ground. Emma flipped through the photos taken at the last movein, marking with checkmarks 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.
James nodded. He was tired of the endless talks, but knew it was essential; otherwise things would revert to the old pattern. They wrote that photographs should be taken both at arrival and departure, that a deposit must be recorded, and that key handover procedures be clarified. They listed how to operate the pump, the oven, and what to do if something broke.
They debated phrasing for hoursseeking language that felt welcoming, not accusing, so guests would feel like visitors, not suspects. Each clause left room for trust, yet drew clear boundaries. Emma insisted the contract include a phone number for immediate contact should any issue arise.
Later, as night fell and the verandah grew cool, the table damp with evening dew, they stopped arguing. The new checklist was neatly transcribed into a notebook, then into a spreadsheet on the laptop. The photo archive was sorted into folders: before, after, checkin, checkout. It felt as if they had washed not just the kitchen counter but some hidden corner of their own minds.
The first test came swiftly. In early August a woman called to ask about the rules, listened carefully to the photorecord and deposit policy, and arranged a meeting with her husband and teenage daughter. The family appeared calm, asking where garden tools were kept, whether they could use the bicycle, and when to water the roses by the porch.
Wed like to stay two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the agreement without hesitation.
Together they walked the cottage, noting the condition of furniture and appliances. Emma showed where spare bulbs were stored, how the irrigation pump worked. The family listened, photographed rooms, and asked where to dispose of waste.
Will we be a bother if we come for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Emma replied, smiling. Just give us a headsup.
This time everything unfolded differently. No complaints arrived in the two weeks. When Emma 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.
James peeked into the shed: the bicycles remained upright, tools neatly arranged. No bottles or cigarette ends littered the ground. Under the apple tree someone had swept away last years leaves. Even the microwave was polished.
On the day of departure the family met them at the gate. Together they walked through, ticking the checklist: no new scratches on the armchair, linen washed and folded, everything accounted for.
Thanks for the clear instructions, the woman said as they left. It made everything easier for us and for you.
Emma returned a measured smile; caution still lingered inside, but her heart felt lighter. They refunded the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist were tucked away in a folder, ready for the next season.
August waned. Days shortened, a gentle mist settled over the beds each morning. Emma and James cleared the garden, gathering the last courgettes and peppers, pruning the blackcurrant canes. The house smelled of apples and fresh laundry.
That summer they learned to say no without guilt and to explain rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist whispered carenot suspicionabout the cottage and its guests.
Its calmer now, James admitted one evening, standing by the window, watching the garden grow dim. I used to worry that too many conditions would drive people away. Now I see that honesty makes it easier for honest folk.
Emma smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples in her arms. She knew trust had not vanished; it had simply become more mature, cautious, but still open.
In September they posted another advert, this time with confidence, outlining every rule and attaching photosnot only of rooms and gardens but also of the checklist on the kitchen table.
Replies came quickly. Prospective renters asked practical questions about water, heating, and transport. One young man wrote, Thank you for the honesty and detailso rare these days.
Emma and James discussed the upcoming season without the old fatigue. They understood that peace was possible, provided they paid attention to themselves and to those who would stay in their home.
The final night before the cottage closed for the year was unusually quiet. A soft wind rustled the grass; somewhere in the distance a dog barked. James locked the shed with a new bolt and joined Emma on the verandah.
Think we need to add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, Emma replied. Weve learned the essentials. Just remember to stay human.
They sat together, watching the garden. A new season loomed, full of fresh meetingsthis time without the fear of losing what mattered most.
