Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass had turned a healthy green and morning dew still clung to the veranda panes, Olivia and Ian finally began to wonder whether they might let their summer cottage out on their own, without an agent. The idea had been percolating for weeksfriends warned of hefty fees, online forums were full of grumpy reviews of letting agents. But the real driver was simple: they wanted to decide themselves who would stay in the house that had hosted their family for the last fifteen summers.
Remember, a cottage isnt just a handful of square metres, Ian said, snipping dry raspberry branches and glancing at his wife. Id like people to treat it with respect, not as a budget hotel.
Olivia dabbed her hands on a towel while standing on the porch and nodded. That year they were planning to stick around town longerher daughter Milly was about to start an important stage of her studies, and Olivia would need to help out. The cottage would sit empty most of the summer, yet the upkeep costs would not disappear. The solution seemed obvious.
That evening, after dinner, they walked through the house the familiar route now viewed with fresh eyes: what needed sprucing up, what should be stored away so as not to tempt strangers with clutter. Books and family photos were boxed and tucked onto the loft, fresh linen was folded into neat stacks, and Olivia sorted the kitchen copper, leaving only the essentials.
Lets document everything, Ian suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed every room, the garden bench, even the old bicycle leaning against the shedjust in case. Olivia made a checklist: number of pots, types of duvet covers, where the spare set of keys lay.
Later that day, a light May shower left puddles across the plot, and they posted an advert on a local letting website. The pictures turned out bright; through the windows you could see tomato vines already stretching up behind the greenhouse, and dandelions in full bloom along the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first enquiries was a mix of nervousness and excitementlike waiting for guests while everything is set, but not knowing who will walk through the door. Calls came quickly: some asked about WiFi and the TV, others wanted to know if dogs or children were welcome. Olivia answered honestly and in detailshe remembered her own search for a rental and knew how the little things mattered.
The first tenants arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold child and a mediumsized Labrador, who over the phone swore the dog was perfectly quiet. They signed a simple paper agreement on the spot, listing names, passports and payment terms. Olivia felt a flutter of nerves; formally the contract wasnt registered, but that seemed sensible for a shortterm let.
The first few days were smooth. Olivia popped by 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 child waved from the kitchen window, the dog greeted them at the gate.
After three weeks, however, the rent started arriving late. At first the excuses were forgotten bank transfers, then sudden unexpected expenses.
Just what we neededmore stress, Ian muttered, scrolling through messages on his phone as the sun slipped behind the apple trees, casting golden strips across the floor.
Olivia tried to be diplomatic, sending gentle reminders and offering to split the payment. Yet each conversation left her feeling more awkward and oddly exhausted.
By midJune it became clear the tenants intended to leave early, still owing part of the rent. When they moved out, the cottage greeted them with a lingering scent of cigarettes on the porch (despite a request not to smoke inside), rubbish under the veranda and paint splatters on the kitchen table.
Ah, the perfectly quiet dog, Ian said, eyeing a scratched pantry door.
They spent the rest of the day clearing debris, scrubbing the hob, and hauling old towels to the wash. The strawberry patch by the fence was already blushing red; between chores Olivia snatched a handful of warm, rainkissed berries.
After that episode they debated whether to continue at all. Should they go back to an agency? The thought of a stranger running their home and taking a cut for simply handing over the keys felt wrong.
Come midsummer they tried again, this time being more selective, demanding a months rent up front and spelling out the house rules in detail.
Unfortunately, the new tenantsa family of two adults and a teenage daughterarrived on Saturday evening and immediately invited friends for a couple of days. The guests stayed for almost a week, laughing loudly in the garden, grilling barbecues until the small hours.
Olivia called repeatedly, asking them to keep noise down after eleven. Ian visited the property and found empty bottles tucked under the lilac bushes.
When the family finally left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa was stained with juice or wine (beyond repair), rubbish bags littered the shed, and cigarette butts lay under the apple tree.
How much longer are we going to put up with this? Ian muttered while clearing the last barbecues.
Olivias disappointment grew. It seemed unfair that strangers could treat a cherished home so carelessly.
Maybe its our fault? We should have been firmer about the rules, she admitted.
In August another inquiry came in: a childless couple wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous dramas Olivia was extra thoroughshe clarified every condition over the phone, insisted on a photo inventory at checkin, and required a security deposit.
The couple agreed without protest, meeting Ian and Olivia at the gate in the scorching afternoonheat shimmering over the path to the shed, insects buzzing from open windows.
At the end of their stay the tenants confessed they had ruined the microwave by heating foil, but refused to pay for the damage.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident, the woman protested.
Olivia felt a flash of anger for the first time that summer, but kept her tone even.
Lets resolve this calmly. Accidents happen. We can agree on a reasonable compensation without a row.
A brief negotiation resulted in them handing over part of the deposit for the repair, and they left without a scene.
When the gate slammed shut and the garden was left only with the buzzing of bees under the terrace roof, Ian and Olivia felt a strange mix of relief and fatigue. They both realised this couldnt go on forever.
That evening, as the sun lingered and the long shadows of the apple tree stretched across the yard, they sat on the veranda with a notebook. The air smelled of grass and ripe apples the orchards fruit drooping low. Olivia flipped through the photos taken at the last checkin, silently ticking off items that now needed attention.
We need a detailed checklist, she said without looking up. So everyone knows what to leave behind: crockery, appliances, linen, rubbish.
Ian nodded, exhausted by the endless discussions but aware that without a list theyd be back to square one. They wrote down that photos should be taken both at arrival and departure, that a deposit must be recorded, and that a contact number should be supplied for any emergencies.
They debated the wording for agestrying to sound welcoming rather than accusatory, ensuring guests felt like visitors, not suspects. Each line was softened to keep trust alive while drawing clear boundaries. Olivia insisted the agreement include a phone number for immediate contact if anything went wrong.
Later, as night fell and the veranda grew cool, the table damp with evening dew, they finished the list, typed it into a spreadsheet on Ians laptop, and organised the photo archive into folders: before, after, handover, return. It felt like theyd not only cleaned the kitchen counter but also cleared a mental clutter.
The first test came quickly. In early August a woman called to ask about the new rules, listened carefully to the photo and deposit policy, and arranged a viewing 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.
Wed like to stay for two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the agreement without hesitation.
Together they walked the property, marking the condition of furniture and appliances. Olivia pointed out spare bulbs, showed how the irrigation pump worked. The family listened, snapped photos, and asked where to dispose of rubbish.
Will we be in the way if we come for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at alljust give us a headsup, Olivia replied with a smile.
This time everything ran smoothly. No complaints arrived over the fortnight. When Olivia checked the greenhouse, the kitchen was spotless and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries sat on the table with a note: Thanks for the trust. Alls well.
Ian peeked into the shed: the bikes were still upright, tools neatly arranged. No bottles, no cigarette ends. Someone had even swept away last years fallen leaves under the apple tree. The microwave gleamed after a careful wipe.
On the day of departure the family met them at the gate, walked through the cottage, and crosschecked the list. Olivia marked: no new scratches, linen washed and folded, everything in order.
Thanks for the clear instructions, the woman said as they left. It made everything easier for us too.
Olivia returned the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist were filed away, ready for the next season.
August was winding down; days grew shorter, a gentle mist rolled over the beds each morning. Olivia and Ian tidied the garden, harvested the last courgettes and peppers, trimmed the blackcurrant branches. The house smelled of apples and fresh laundry.
That summer they had learned to say no without feeling guilty and to explain rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist now sounded less like suspicion and more like caringfor the cottage and for the people staying in it.
Its calmer now, Ian confessed one evening, watching the dimming garden from the window. I used to fear that too many conditions would scare everyone away. Now I see that honesty makes things easier for honest folk.
Olivia smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples in her hands. Trust hadnt vanished; it had simply become more mature, cautious, but not shut away.
In September they posted a new advert, this time with confidence. The description spelled out every rule and included photos of the cottage, the garden, and even the checklist displayed on the kitchen table.
Responses arrived quickly. Prospective renters asked practical questions about water, heating, and transport. One young man wrote, Thanks for the honesty and detailrare these days.
Olivia and Ian discussed the upcoming season without the previous weariness. They knew peace was possible, as long as they stayed attentiveboth to themselves and to the guests who would share their home.
The final night before closing the cottage was unusually quiet. A gentle breeze rustled through the orchard; somewhere a dog barked in the distance. Ian locked the shed with a new bolt and joined Olivia on the veranda.
Think we need to add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, Olivia replied. Weve got the essentials. Just remember to stay human.
They sat side by side, watching the garden bathe in moonlight. A new season lay ahead, full of fresh meetingsthis time without the fear of losing what mattered most.
