Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass had turned a deep, juicy green and the morning dew still clung to the veranda panes, Harriet and Edward paused for the first time and wondered whether they might let their country cottage go straight to a renter, without any middlemen. The idea had been fermenting for weeks, fed by friends complaints about agency fees and angry forum posts about greedy landlords. But the deeper urge was simple: they wanted to decide themselves who would be trusted with the house that had cradled their summers for the past fifteen years.
After all, a cottage isnt just a handful of square feet, Edward said, snipping dry raspberry branches and glancing at his wife. Id like people to treat it with respect, not as if it were a hotel bedroom.
Harriet wiped her hands on a towel by the porch and nodded. That year they would stay in the town longer their daughter, Mabel, was about to start an important stage of her schooling, and Harriet would need to help out. The cottage would sit empty for most of the summer, yet the bills would still drift in. The answer seemed obvious.
That evening, after dinner, they walked through the rooms in their familiar rhythm, now viewing everything through a new lens: what needed polishing, what should be tucked away so as not to tempt strangers with unnecessary clutter. Books and family photographs were boxed and placed on the high shelves; fresh linens were folded into neat stacks. In the kitchen Harriet pared down the dishes, leaving only the essentials.
Lets document everything, Edward suggested, pulling out his phone. They snapped pictures of each room, the garden bench, even the old bicycle leaning by the shedjust in case. Harriet noted the minutiae: number of pots, types of bedcovers, where the spare set of keys lay hidden.
Later that day, a gentle May rain turned the driveway into a series of puddles, and they posted an advert on a rental site. The photos came out bright: through the windows one could see tomato vines already stretching toward the greenhouse roof, while dandelions carpeted the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first responses felt both anxious and oddly joyous, like the moment before guests arrive, the house primed and the identity of the visitor unknown. Calls came quickly: some asked about WiFi and the television, others whether dogs or children were welcome. Harriet answered honestly and in detailshe remembered the sting of searching for a place herself and the value of small specifics.
The first renters arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold son and a mediumsized Labrador that they promised was utterly silent. They signed a simple paper on the spot, listing names, dates, and a payment plan in pounds sterling. Harriet felt a flutter of nerves; the contract was informal, yet to them it seemed sensiblenothing more was required for a seasonal stay.
In the first days everything ran smoothly. Harriet dropped by once a week to check the garden and water the tomatoes, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread from town. The renters were friendly: the boy waved from the kitchen window, the dog greeted them at the gate.
Three weeks in, however, the rent began to lag. At first the explanations were forgetfulness or a bank error; later vague excuses about unexpected expenses surfaced.
Just what we needmore nerves, Edward muttered, scrolling through messages on his phone as the sun slipped behind the apple trees, painting golden bands on the floorboards.
Harriet tried to negotiate gently, reminding them without pressure and offering a split payment. Yet tension mounted; each conversation left a lingering awkwardness and a vague, draining fatigue.
By midJune it became clear: the renters intended to leave early, leaving part of the money unpaid. When they finally moved out, the cottage smelled faintly of cigarette smoke on the porch (despite a request to keep smoking outside), trash littered under the veranda, and paint splatters marred the kitchen table.
Heres your utterly silent dog, Edward said, staring at the scratched pantry door.
They spent the whole day cleaning in silence: hauling rubbish, scrubbing the stove, carting old towels to the wash. The strawberry patch by the fence was already blushing with fruit; between chores Harriet plucked a handful of berries, warm from the rain.
After that episode they lingered over a long talk: should they continue at all? Perhaps a proper agency would be safer? Yet the thought of handing the cottage to strangers who would take a cut for merely passing the keys felt wrong.
By midsummer they tried again, this time vetting tenants more carefully, demanding a months rent up front and spelling out house rules in detail.
The new experience was no better. A family of two adults and a teenager arrived on Saturday evening and immediately invited friends for a couple of days. The visitors turned the garden into a boisterous camplaughing loudly, grilling kebabs into the late night.
Harriet called repeatedly, pleading for quiet after eleven; Edward checked the garden and found empty bottles hidden under lilac bushes.
When the family finally left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa was stained with juice or wine, the rubbish bins sat beside the shed, and cigarette butts lay scattered under the apple tree.
How much longer can we put up with this? Edward muttered, sorting through the remnants of the barbecue.
Harriet felt a growing disappointment, thinking it unfair that people treated someone elses home so carelessly.
Perhaps its our fault? We should have been stricter about the rules
In August another inquiry arrived: a childless young couple wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous mishaps Harriet was especially thorough, laying out all conditions over the phone, insisting on photographic evidence of the cottages state at arrival, and demanding a deposit.
The renters agreed without protest; they met at the gate in the scorching midday heat, the air humming over the path to the shed, insects buzzing from open windows.
At the end of their stay they admitted to damaging the microwave by heating foil, and refused to pay for the repair.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident! the woman protested.
Harriet felt a flush of anger for the first time that summer, but held back harsh words.
Lets try to resolve this calmly. Accidents happen. We can agree on compensation without a fight.
After a brief discussion they reached a compromise: part of the deposit would cover the repair, and they left without a scene.
When the gate slammed shut and the garden was left only with heat and the low hum of bees under the terrace roof, Edward and Harriet shared a strange sense of relief tinged with weariness.
They both realized this could not continue.
That evening, as the heat lingered and long shadows from the apple tree stretched across the yard, they sat on the veranda with a notebook. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and ripe apples the orchards fruit drooped low, some touching the ground. Harriet flipped through photos taken at the last checkin, silently marking items that now needed attention.
We need a detailed checklist, she said without looking up. So everyone knows what to leave behind: dishes, appliances, linen, rubbish.
Edward nodded. He was exhausted by the endless conversations, but understood: without a list everything would revert to the old chaos. They wrote down that photos should be taken both at movein and moveout, that a deposit must be recorded, and that key handover procedures should be clear. They listed how to use the appliances and what to do if something broke.
They debated wording for hours, striving to sound welcoming rather than accusatory, to make renters feel like guests, not suspects. Each line kept a sliver of trust, yet drew a firm boundary. Harriet insisted on including a phone number for emergencies, so any issue could be reported instantly.
As night fell and the veranda grew cool, the tablecloth damp with evening dew, they stopped arguing. The new checklist was neatly copied into a ledger, then typed into a spreadsheet on their laptop. The photo archive was sorted into folders: before, after, handover, return. It felt as if they had washed not only the kitchen counter but also 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 requirement and deposit, and clarified details. She arrived with her husband and teenage daughter. The family seemed calm, asking where garden tools were kept, whether the bicycle could be used, and when the roses by the gate should be watered.
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. Harriet showed where spare bulbs lay, how to turn on the irrigation pump. The family listened, photographed each room, and even asked where to dispose of waste.
Will we be in the way if you come for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Harriet replied with a smile. Just give us a headsup.
This time everything unfolded differently. No complaints arrived during the fortnight. When Harriet checked the greenhouse, the kitchen was spotless, and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries sat on the table with a note: Thank you for your trust. All is well.
Edward peeked into the shed: the bicycles stood untouched, tools were neatly arranged. No bottles or cigarette ends littered the garden. Under the apple tree someone had swept away last years leaves. Even the microwave was gleaming.
On the day they left, the family met them at the gate. They walked through the house together, ticking off the checklist: no new scratches on the furniture, linens washed and folded, everything in its place.
Thank you for the clear instructions, the woman said as she departed. It made things easier for us and for you.
Harriet managed a restrained smile; caution still lived inside her, but her heart felt lighter. They returned the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist were tucked away in a folderready for the next season.
August waned; days shortened and mornings brought a soft mist over the beds. Harriet and Edward tidied the plot, gathering the last courgettes and peppers, pruning the blackcurrant canes. The house smelled of apples and fresh laundry.
That summer they had learned to say no without guilt and to explain rules without irritation. Every line of the new checklist whispered carenot suspicionabout the cottage and its guests.
Its calmer now, Edward confessed one evening, standing by the window, watching the dimming garden. I used to fear that too many conditions would scare people away. Now I see that honesty makes it easier for a decent person.
Harriet smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples cradled in her arms. She knew trust had not vanished. It had simply become more mature, cautious, but still open.
In September they posted a new advert, this time with confidence, detailing every rule and adding photosnot only of rooms and the garden but also of the checklist laid on the dining table.
Responses came quickly. People asked practical questions about water and heating, about transport links. One young man wrote, Thanks for the honesty and detailso rare these days.
Harriet and Edward discussed the coming season without the tiredness that had haunted them before. They realized peace was possible, provided they paid attentionto themselves and to those who would stay in their home.
The final evening before the cottage closed for the year was unusually quiet. A gentle breeze swept the fields; somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Edward locked the shed with a new padlock and joined Harriet on the veranda.
Think we need to add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, Harriet replied. Weve learned the main thingdont forget to be human.
They sat together, watching the garden. A new season lay ahead, filled with fresh meetingsno longer shadowed by the fear of losing what mattered most.
