Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass was a deep, juicy green and a fine mist still clung to the porch windows, Helen and James finally sat down and thought seriously about renting out their cottage themselves, without an estate agent. The idea had been ripening for weeks friends had warned them about commission fees, online forums were full of grumbles about lettings agents, and, most of all, they wanted to decide for themselves who could be trusted with the house that had sheltered their family for the past fifteen summers.
After all, a cottage isnt just a collection of square metres, James said, snipping dead raspberry canes and glancing at his wife. Wed like people to treat it with respect, not as if it were a hotel room.
Helen wiped her hands on a kitchen towel while standing on the step and nodded. That year they planned to stay in town longer their daughter, Lucy, was starting a crucial term at university, and Helen needed to help her settle. The cottage would sit empty for most of the summer, yet the upkeep costs wouldnt disappear. The solution seemed obvious.
That evening, after dinner, they walked through the property the same familiar route, now seen with fresh eyes. They decided what needed tidying, what to stash away so that strangers wouldnt be tempted by needless clutter. Books and family photos were boxed and tucked onto the loft, freshwashed bedding was folded in a neat stack, and in the kitchen Helen pared down the crockery to the essentials.
Lets record everything, James suggested, pulling out his phone. They snapped pictures of each room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle by the shed just in case. Helen wrote down the minutiae: number of pots, types of duvets, where the spare set of keys was hidden.
Later that day, as the first May shower turned the garden into a patchwork of puddles, they posted an advert on a popular renting site. The photos turned out bright; through the windows you could see tomato vines already climbing the greenhouse, and dandelions were spilling over the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first replies was a mix of nervousness and excitement like preparing a house for guests when youre not sure wholl knock. The calls came quickly: some people asked about WiFi and the TV, others wanted to know if dogs or children were welcome. Helen answered each query honestly and in detail she remembered how confusing it was when she was looking for a place herself.
The first tenants arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold son and a mediumsized Labrador called Buster. Over the phone they promised the dog was utterly quiet. They signed a simple paper with names, addresses and payment terms. Helen felt a flutter of nerves; the agreement wasnt registered with a solicitor, but that seemed sensible for a seasonal let.
The first few days were smooth. Helen dropped 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 boy waved from the kitchen window, Buster greeted them at the gate.
Three weeks in, the rent started arriving late. At first they blamed forgetfulness or a bank error, then began inventing unforeseen expenses.
Just what we need a dose of nerves, James muttered, scrolling through their messages in the kitchen as the sun set behind the apple trees, casting golden bars across the floor.
Helen tried to be diplomatic: gentle reminders, offers to split the payment, but tension grew. Each conversation left a lingering awkwardness and a vague, exhausting fatigue.
By midJune it became clear the family planned to leave early, still owing part of the rent. When they finally checked out, the cottage smelled faintly of cigarettes on the porch (despite a request to keep smoking outside), trash littered under the veranda, and the kitchen table bore paint smudges.
Ah, the utterly quiet dog, James said, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent the rest of the day cleaning: taking out rubbish, scrubbing the stove, hauling old towels to the wash. The strawberry patch along the fence was already blushing with colour; Helen snatched a handful of warm, rainkissed berries.
After that episode they debated at length whether to continue at all. Should they enlist an agency? The idea of strangers handling their home or taking a cut for merely handing over the keys felt wrong.
Midsummer they tried again, this time screening more carefully, demanding a months rent up front and spelling out the house rules in detail.
The new tenants a couple with a teenage daughter arrived on a Saturday evening and immediately invited friends over for a couple of days. Those gatherings turned into a weeklong party marathon: loud laughter, latenight barbecues, and bottles left under the lilac bushes.
Helen called several times, asking politely for quiet after eleven. James made a surprise visit and found empty cans beneath the shrubbery.
When they finally left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa stained with wine that could not be removed, rubbish bags piled by the shed, and cigarette butts under the apple tree.
How much longer are we going to put up with this? James grumbled while clearing the last bits of barbecue from the grill.
Helen felt a growing disappointment; it seemed unfair that people could treat their home so carelessly.
Maybe were at fault? We should have been stricter about the rules, she mused.
In August another inquiry came in: a childfree couple wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous mishaps Helen was extra cautious she clarified every condition over the phone, insisted on a photo inventory at checkin, and demanded a security deposit.
The renters agreed without protest and met them at the gate on a scorching afternoon, the air shimmering above the path to the shed, insects buzzing from the open windows.
At the end of their stay it turned out they had ruined the microwave by heating foil, then refused to pay for the damage.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident! the woman protested.
Helen felt a spark of anger for the first time that summer but held back sharp words.
Lets sort this calmly. Accidents happen. Well agree on a fair compensation without a fuss, she suggested.
After a brief negotiation they kept part of the deposit for repairs and left on amicable terms.
When the gate slammed shut behind them and the garden was left only with heat and the hum of bees under the terrace roof, James and Helen felt a strange mixture of relief and fatigue. They both knew this could not continue.
That same evening, as the sun lingered and the long shadows of the apple tree stretched across the lawn, they sat on the porch with a notebook. The scent of freshly cut grass and ripe apples filled the air; the orchards heavy fruits brushed the ground in a few spots. Helen flipped through the photos taken at the last checkin and, in silence, ticked off everything that now needed attention.
We need a detailed checklist, she said without looking up. So everyone knows exactly what to leave as it is dishes, appliances, linen, rubbish.
James nodded. He was weary of the endless discussions, but he understood that without a clear list things would revert to the old chaos. They wrote down that photos should be taken with the guests at both arrival and departure, that a deposit must be recorded, and that key handover procedures should be spelled out. They listed how to operate the appliances and what to do if anything broke.
They debated the wording for ages it had to be welcoming, not hostile, so guests felt like visitors, not suspects. Each line left room for trust, but also set firm boundaries. Helen insisted the contract include a contact phone number for any emergencies.
As night fell and the porch grew cool, the tablecloth damp with evening dew, they no longer argued. The new checklist was neatly copied into a paper notebook, then typed into a spreadsheet on Jamess laptop. The photo archive was organised into folders: before, after, movein, moveout. The effort lifted a weight from their shoulders, as if they had not only cleaned the kitchen table but also a corner of their minds.
The first test came quickly. In early August a woman called to ask about the rules, listened carefully to the photo and deposit policy, and clarified a few details. She arrived with her husband and teenage daughter. The family seemed calm, asking where garden tools were kept, whether they could use the bike, and when to water the roses by the porch.
Wed like to stay for two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the agreement without hesitation.
Together they walked through the cottage, noting the condition of furniture and appliances. Helen pointed out where spare bulbs were stored, how the irrigation pump worked. The family listened, took photos, and even asked where to dispose of waste.
Will we be a bother if you come to collect the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Helen replied with a smile. Just give us a headsup.
This time things ran smoothly. In two weeks no complaints arrived. When Helen checked the greenhouse, the kitchen was spotless, and a bowl of fresh strawberries sat on the table with a note: Thanks for the trust. All good.
James peeked into the shed: the bikes were upright, tools neatly arranged. No bottles, no cigarette ends. Someone had even swept away last years fallen leaves under the apple tree. The microwave was polished.
On the day of departure the family met them at the gate. Together they ticked the checklist: no new scratches, linen washed and folded, everything in its place.
Your instructions were crystal clear, the woman said as she left. Made life easier for us too.
Helen smiled, still cautious but lighter inside. They returned the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist were filed away ready for the next season.
August was winding down. Days shortened, a gentle mist rolled over the beds. Helen and James cleared the last courgettes and peppers, trimmed the blackcurrant branches. The house smelled of apples and freshly laundered linen.
That summer they had learned to say no without guilt and to explain rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist sounded less like suspicion and more like care for the cottage and for the people who stayed in it.
It feels calmer now, James admitted one evening, gazing out the window at the dimming garden. I used to think too many conditions would scare renters away. Now I see honest people appreciate clarity.
Helen returned his smile from the hall, a basket of apples in her arms. Trust hadnt vanished; it had simply matured still open, just a little more guarded.
In September they posted another advert, this time with confidence rather than anxiety. The description listed every rule, accompanied by photos of the rooms, the garden, and even the checklist laid out on the dining table.
Responses came fast. Prospective renters asked practical questions about water, heating, and transport. One young man wrote, Thanks for the honesty and detail its rare these days.
Helen and James discussed the upcoming season without the old fatigue. They knew peace was possible, provided they paid attention both to themselves and to those who would call the cottage home for a spell.
The final night before closing the cottage for winter was unusually quiet. A soft breeze swept the grounds, a distant dog barked, and James locked the shed with a new hasp before joining Helen on the porch.
Think we need to add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, Helen replied. Weve got the essentials. Just remember to stay human.
They sat side by side, watching the garden, the new season already whispering promises of fresh meetings this time without the fear of losing what mattered most.
