Season of Trust
May had just begun, the grass turning a deep green and the morning dew still clinging to the porch panes. Olivia and I, Ian, finally began to wonder whether we should try letting our cottage out on our own, without an estate agent. The idea had been maturing for weeks friends had complained about hefty commissions, online forums were full of sour reviews of agents. But the real reason was simpler: we wanted to decide ourselves who could be trusted with the house that had sheltered us for the last fifteen summers.
After all, a cottage isnt just a few square metres, Ian said, trimming dry raspberry canes and glancing at me. Id like people to treat it with respect, not like a cheap hotel.
I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel as I stood on the steps and nodded. That year we were staying in town longer our daughter Sophie was about to start an important stage of her studies, and I would need to help her. The cottage would sit empty for most of the summer, yet the upkeep costs would not disappear. The solution seemed obvious.
That evening, after dinner, we walked through the rooms the same route wed taken a hundred times, but now with fresh eyes. We decided what needed tidying, what should be put out of sight so that strangers wouldnt be tempted to move in their own clutter. Books and family photographs went into boxes and onto the loft shelf; fresh linen was folded into a neat stack. In the kitchen I sorted the dishes, leaving only the essentials.
Lets document everything, Ian suggested, pulling out his phone. We photographed each room, the garden bench, even the old BMX by the shed just in case. I jotted down details: the number of pots, the type of duvet covers, where the spare set of keys was hidden.
Later that day, a light May rain turned the garden patches into puddles, and we posted an advertisement on a lettings website. The pictures turned out bright: through the windows you could see tomato vines already climbing the greenhouse, and dandelions were blooming thickly along the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first responses felt both anxious and oddly cheerful like waiting for guests when the house is ready but you have no idea who will knock. The calls came quickly: some asked about WiFi and the TV, others wanted to know if dogs or children were welcome. I answered honestly and in detail Id once been a tenant myself and knew how important the little things were.
The first renters arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold son and a mediumsized Labrador that they swore was utterly quiet. We signed a simple paper agreement on the spot, listing passports and payment terms. I felt a flutter of nerves the contract wasnt registered, but for a summer let that seemed fine.
The first few days were smooth. I visited 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 us at the gate.
After three weeks, however, the rent started to lag. At first they blamed forgetfulness or a bank error, then began to cite unexpected expenses.
Just what we need, more nerves, Ian muttered, scrolling through the messages on his phone as the sun set behind the apple trees, painting gold bars across the floorboards.
I tried to keep the tone gentle, sending polite reminders and offering to split the payment if needed. Yet each conversation left me feeling more uneasy, a vague fatigue settling over me.
By midJune it became clear the family intended to leave early, and a part of the rent remained unpaid. When they finally moved out, the cottage smelled of cigarette smoke on the porch (despite our request to smoke outside), trash littered under the veranda, and paint splatters marred the kitchen table.
See? Utterly quiet dog, Ian said, staring at a scratched pantry door.
We spent most of the day cleaning: taking out the rubbish, scrubbing the stove, hauling old towels to the wash. The strawberry patch by the fence was already blushing, and between tasks I plucked a handful of warm, rainkissed berries.
After that episode we argued for a long while should we keep going at all? Maybe we should hand the job to an agency? The thought of a stranger running our home or taking a cut for simply handing over the keys felt wrong.
By midsummer we tried again, this time being more selective, demanding a months rent up front and explaining our house rules in greater detail.
The new tenants a couple with a teenage daughter arrived on a Saturday evening and promptly invited friends for a couple of days. The house soon filled with noisy parties that lingered until the early hours, grills blazing and laughter echoing in the yard.
I called several times, asking them to keep noise down after eleven. Ian drove out to inspect and found empty bottles beneath the lilac bushes.
When they finally left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa was stained with wine, rubbish bags were stacked by the shed, and cigarette butts littered the apple tree base.
How much longer can we put up with this? Ian muttered, sorting through the remnants of the barbecue.
I felt a growing disappointment, as if it were unfair that people treated our home so carelessly.
Perhaps we were too lenient? We should have enforced the rules more firmly, I thought.
In August another enquiry came in a young couple without children wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous incidents I was especially cautious: I outlined every condition over the phone, insisted on a photographic inventory at arrival, and required a security deposit.
They agreed without protest. We met at the gate in the scorching midday heat; the air shimmered over the path to the shed, and the sound of insects filled the open windows.
When the week ended, they confessed that they had unintentionally ruined the microwave by heating foil, but refused to pay for the damage.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident! the woman protested.
I felt anger rise for the first time all summer, but held back sharp words.
Lets try to resolve this calmly. Accidents happen. Lets agree on a compensation that works for both of us, I suggested.
After a brief discussion they left part of the deposit to cover the repair, and we avoided a scene.
When the gate swung shut behind them and the garden was left only with the heat and the hum of bees under the terrace roof, Ian and I felt a strange mix of relief and exhaustion.
We both knew this could not continue.
That evening, as the sun lingered and long shadows from the apple tree stretched across the lawn, we sat on the porch with a notebook. The scent of fresh grass and ripe apples hung in the air; the fruit of the orchard lay scattered on the ground. I flipped through the photos taken at the last checkin and quietly ticked off everything that now needed attention.
We need a detailed list, I said without looking up. So everyone knows exactly what to leave as they go: crockery, appliances, linen, waste.
Ian nodded, weary from the endless talks but aware that without a clear system things would revert to the old chaos. We wrote down that photos should be taken with the tenants both on arrival and departure, added a clause about the deposit, clarified the handover of keys, and explained how to operate the appliances and what to do if something broke.
We debated the wording for ages wanting it to sound welcoming, not hostile, so guests would feel like visitors, not suspects. Each line left room for trust, but also set firm boundaries. I insisted the contract include a phone number for immediate contact in case of problems.
Later, as the night grew cooler and the porch table dampened with evening dew, we no longer argued. We transcribed the checklist neatly into a notebook, then into a spreadsheet on the laptop. The photo archive was sorted into folders: before, after, handover, return. It felt lighter, as if wed not only cleaned the kitchen counter but also some inner clutter.
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 arranged a meeting with her husband and teenage daughter. They seemed calm, asking where the 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 we walked the cottage, noting the condition of furniture and appliances. I showed where spare bulbs were stored, how the irrigation pump worked. They listened, took photos, and asked where to dispose of waste.
Will we be in your way if we come for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, I replied with a smile. Just give us a headsup.
This time everything ran smoothly. No complaints arrived in the two weeks. When I checked the greenhouse, the kitchen was tidy, and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries sat on the table with a note: Thank you for your trust. All is well.
Ian peeked into the shed: the bikes were still in place, tools neatly arranged. No bottles or butts lay on the ground. Under the apple tree someone had swept away last years leaves. Even the microwave had been wiped clean.
On the day they left, the family met us at the gate. We walked through the house, checking off the list: no new scratches, linen washed and stacked, everything in its place.
Thank you for the clear instructions, the woman said as she departed. It made everything easier for us and for you.
I smiled faintly, still feeling a hint of caution, but the weight on my chest had eased. We returned the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist went back into the folder ready for the next season.
August was winding down. Days grew shorter, a gentle mist settled on the beds each morning. Olivia and Ian (myself) harvested the last courgettes and peppers, trimmed the dry blackcurrant branches. The house smelled of apples and fresh linen.
That summer we learned to say no without guilt and to explain our rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist reflected not suspicion but care for the house and for the people who entered it.
Its calmer now, Ian admitted one evening, standing by the window, watching the dusky garden. I used to worry that too many conditions would scare people away. Now I see honest folk appreciate clarity.
I smiled from the hallway, holding a basket of apples. Trust hadnt vanished; it had simply matured, become more measured but still open.
In September we posted another advertisement, this time with confidence rather than anxiety. We detailed every rule, attached photos of the cottage, the garden, and even a snapshot of the checklist on the table.
Responses came quickly. People asked practical questions about water and heating, about transport. One young man wrote, Thanks for the honesty and detail its rare these days.
Ian and I discussed the upcoming season without the old fatigue. We knew peace was possible we just needed to stay attentive, both to ourselves and to those who would stay in our home.
The last night before the cottage closed for the year was especially quiet. A gentle breeze swept across the lawn; somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Ian locked the shed with a new deadbolt and joined me on the porch.
Think we need to add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, I replied. Weve learned the essentials. Just remember to stay human.
We sat together, watching the garden. A new season lay ahead, with new faces this time without the fear of losing what mattered most.
