Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass had turned a juicy green and the morning dew still clung to the porch panes, Olivia and Ian finally thought seriously about renting out their country cottage on their own, without an estate agent. The idea had been simmering for weeks friends warned them about agency fees, online forums were full of sour reviews of lettings companies. But the real driver was simple: they wanted to decide themselves who could look after the home where they’d spent the last fifteen summers.
After all, a cottage isnt just a bundle of square metres, Ian said, snipping dry raspberry canes and glancing at his wife. Wed like people to treat it with respect, not as a cheap hotel.
Olivia dabbed her hands on a towel while standing on the steps and nodded. That year theyd be staying in the city a little longer their daughter, Mia, was starting a crucial year at university and Olivia needed to help out. The cottage would sit empty most of the summer, yet the upkeep costs wouldnt disappear. The solution seemed obvious.
That evening, after dinner, they walked through the house the same familiar route, now with a fresh eye: what needed sprucing up, what to stash away so new guests wouldnt be tempted by clutter. Books and family photos were packed into boxes and lifted onto the loft, fresh linens were folded into neat stacks, and in the kitchen Olivia kept only the essential crockery.
Lets record everything, Ian suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed each room, the garden bench, even the old bike leaning by the shed just in case. Olivia made a list of the little details: how many pots, which duvet covers, where the spare set of keys lay.
Later that day, a light May shower turned the driveway to puddles, and they posted the advert on a popular rental site. The pictures turned out bright: through the windows you could see tomato vines already reaching up the greenhouse, and dandelions were spilling over the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first responses felt both nervous and oddly joyful like waiting for guests when the house is ready but you have no clue who will walk through the door. The calls arrived quickly: some asked about WiFi and the TV, others whether dogs or children were allowed. Olivia answered honestly and in detail shed once been a tenant herself and knew how much the small stuff mattered.
The first renters arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold daughter and a mediumsized Labrador they swore was perfectly quiet. They signed a simple paper agreement on the spot, complete with passport details and payment terms. Olivia felt a flutter of nerves technically the contract wasnt registered, but for a seasonal let that seemed fine.
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 renters were friendly; the child waved from the kitchen window and the dog greeted them at the gate.
After three weeks, however, the rent payments began to lag. At first they blamed forgetfulness or a bank error, then started inventing unforeseen expenses.
Just what we need more nerves, Ian muttered, scrolling through messages on his phone while the sun set behind the apple trees, painting golden stripes on the floor.
Olivia tried to keep things civil: gentle reminders, offers to split the overdue amount. Yet each conversation left a feeling of awkward fatigue, and the tension grew.
By midJune it became clear the family intended to leave early, leaving part of the rent unpaid. When they finally moved out, the cottage greeted them with a lingering cigarette smell on the porch (despite the nosmoking request), rubbish under the veranda and paint splatters on the kitchen table.
Ah, the quiet Labrador, Ian said, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent the rest of the day cleaning: hauling trash, scrubbing the stovetop, washing old towels. The strawberries at the fence were already blushing; Olivia snatched a handful of warm, rainkissed berries between chores.
After that episode they argued for a while: should they keep renting themselves, or hand the job over to an agency? The idea of strangers meddling with their home and taking a cut for merely handing over the keys felt wrong.
By midsummer they tried again, this time vetting tenants more carefully, demanding a months rent up front and spelling out the house rules in detail.
The new experience was no better. A family of two adults and a teenage son turned up on Saturday evening and immediately invited friends for a couple of days. Those noisy gatherings lingered for almost a week: laughter and barbecues echoed into the night, bottles littered the lilac bushes.
Olivia called repeatedly, asking them to keep the noise down after eleven. Ian checked the garden and found empty bottles beneath the lilac shrubs.
When the family finally left, the cottage looked exhausted: the sofa was stained with wine, trash bags sat by the shed, and cigarette butts littered the apple tree base.
How much longer are we supposed to put up with this? Ian muttered, sorting through the leftover barbecue remnants.
Olivia felt a growing disappointment. It seemed unfair that people treated someone elses home so carelessly.
Maybe were at fault? We should have been stricter about the rules she mused.
In August another enquiry came in: a young couple without children wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous dramas Olivia was extra thorough she outlined every condition over the phone, insisted on photographic evidence of the cottages condition at checkin, and demanded a security deposit.
The renters agreed without protest; they met at the gate on a sweltering afternoon the air shimmering above the path to the shed, insects humming from the open windows.
At the end of their stay it emerged that the guests had ruined the microwave by heating foil, and then refused to pay for the damage.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident! the woman protested.
Olivia felt a flash of anger, but held back any sharp words.
Lets sort this out calmly. Accidents happen. Well just agree on a reasonable compensation, she suggested.
After a brief negotiation they kept part of the deposit for the repair and left without a scene.
When the gate slammed shut behind them, the garden was quiet save for the buzz of bumblebees over the patio roof. Ian and Olivia felt a strange mix of relief and fatigue. They both realised this could not continue unchanged.
That same evening, as the heat lingered and the long shadows of the apple tree stretched across the lawn, they sat on the porch with a notebook. The scent of fresh grass and apples hung in the air the orchard was heavy with ripe fruit. Olivia flipped through the photos from the last tenancy and silently ticked off items that still needed attention.
We need a detailed checklist, she said without looking up. So everyone knows exactly what to leave behind: crockery, appliances, linen, rubbish.
Ian nodded, weary from the endless chats but understanding that without clear guidelines things would revert to the old chaos. They wrote down that photos should be taken with the tenants at both arrival and departure, added a line about the deposit, clarified the key handover procedure, and listed how to operate the pump for the irrigation system and what to do if anything broke.
They debated the wording for ages wanting it to sound welcoming, not accusatory, while still drawing firm boundaries. Olivia insisted the contract include a phone number for immediate contact if anything went wrong.
Later, as the evening dew dampened the tablecloth on the porch, they stopped arguing. The new checklist was neatly copied into a ledger, then typed into a spreadsheet on Ians laptop. The photo archive was organized into folders: before, after, checkin, checkout. It felt as if theyd not only cleaned the kitchen counter but also tidied up a 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 the deposit, and booked a stay with her husband and teenage daughter. The family seemed calm from the start, asking where the garden tools were kept, whether they could use the bike and when to water the roses by the gate.
Wed like to stay two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the agreement without hesitation.
Together they walked through the cottage, noting the condition of the furniture and appliances. Olivia showed where spare bulbs were stored, how the water pump worked. The family listened, took photos, and asked where to dispose of rubbish.
Will you mind if we swing by for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all just give us a headsup, Olivia replied with a smile.
This time everything ran smoothly. No complaints came in those two weeks. 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 propped, tools neatly arranged. No bottles, no cigarette ends. Under the apple tree someone had swept away last years leaves. Even the microwave gleamed.
On the day of departure the family met them at the gate. Together they walked the house, ticking off the checklist: no new scratches, linens washed and folded, everything in its place.
Thank you for the clear instructions, the woman said as she left. It made things easier for us too.
Olivia returned the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist were slipped into a folder, ready for the next season.
August slipped toward its end. Days grew shorter, a gentle mist rolled over the beds. Olivia and Ian harvested the last courgettes and peppers, trimmed the blackcurrant canes. The house smelled of apples and freshly laundered sheets.
That summer theyd 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 staying there.
It feels calmer now, Ian confessed one evening, watching the garden darken. I used to think too many conditions would scare everyone away. Now I see that honesty makes it easier for anyone decent.
Olivia smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples in her hands. She knew trust hadnt vanished; it had simply matured more cautious, but still open.
In September they posted a fresh advert, this time with confidence rather than anxiety. The description listed every rule, accompanied by photos of the rooms, the garden, and even a snapshot of the checklist on the dining table.
Responses came quickly. People asked practical questions about water, heating, and transport. One young man wrote, Thanks for the honesty and detail its rare these days.
Olivia and Ian discussed the upcoming season without the weariness of previous years. They understood that peace was possible; they just needed to stay attentive to themselves and to the guests who would share their home.
The final night before the cottage closed for the season was unusually quiet. A gentle breeze swept the garden; somewhere a dog barked faintly. Ian locked the shed with a new padlock and joined Olivia on the porch.
Think we should add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, Olivia replied. Weve got the essentials. Just remember to stay human.
They sat together, watching the apple trees cast long shadows over the lawn. A new season beckoned, full of fresh meetings this time without the fear of losing what mattered most.
