**The Season of Trust**
At the start of May, when the grass had turned lush and mornings still left dew on the veranda windows, Olivia and Edward seriously considered renting out their cottage themselvesno agents, no middlemen. The idea had simmered for weeks. Friends shared horror stories about fees, forums bristled with complaints about lettings agencies. But the real reason was simpler: they wanted to choose who stepped into the home where theyd spent the last fifteen summers.
A cottage isnt just square footage, Edward said, carefully pruning the raspberry bushes, glancing at his wife. We need people wholl treat it with respect, not like a hotel.
Olivia wiped her hands on a tea towel by the porch and nodded. This year, theyd stay in London longertheir daughter had important exams, and Olivia needed to help. The house would sit empty most of the summer, yet the bills wouldnt stop. Renting it out seemed the only solution.
That evening, after supper, they walked through the cottage with fresh eyes, deciding what to tuck awayfamily photos, books, anything too personal. They boxed up keepsakes for the loft, left fresh linen folded neatly, pared down the kitchen to just the essentials.
We should document everything, Edward suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed each room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle by the shedjust in case. Olivia jotted notes: how many pans, where spare keys were kept, which quilts were on the beds.
The next afternoon, as the first May rain pattered against the windows, they listed the cottage online. The photos captured sunlight streaming through the greenhouse, tomato plants stretching toward the sky, dandelions lining the path to the gate.
Waiting for responses was nerve-wracking yet oddly thrillinglike preparing for guests whose faces you couldnt picture. Calls came quickly: questions about Wi-Fi, whether pets or children were allowed. Olivia answered honestly, remembering her own searches for rentals and how details mattered.
The first tenants arrived in late Maya young couple with a seven-year-old and a medium-sized dog, insisting the pet was perfectly quiet. They signed a simple agreement on the spot, names and payment terms scrawled on paper. Olivia bit back unease; it wasnt legally registered, but for them, it felt right.
The first days were smooth. Olivia visited weekly to check the greenhouse and drop off fresh towels. The tenants were politethe child waved from the kitchen, the dog trotted to greet her.
Then the payments started lagging. Excuses piled up: bank errors, unexpected expenses.
Why must we deal with this? Edward muttered one evening, scrolling through messages as sunset streaked gold across the floor.
Olivia tried gentle reminders, offering instalments, but tension coiled tighter after each call. By mid-June, it was clear: theyd leave early, unpaid. When they did, the cottage reeked of cigarettes (despite the no-smoking rule), rubbish piled under the veranda, paint smears on the kitchen table.
So much for perfectly quiet, Edward said, eyeing claw marks on the pantry door.
They spent the day scrubbing, hauling bin bags, washing stained linens. By the fence, strawberries ripened; Olivia plucked a handful, still warm from the rain.
Afterward, they debated giving up. Maybe an agency was worth the fee? But letting strangers dictate their home felt wrong.
By mid-summer, they tried againstricter this time: deposits upfront, rules spelt out clearly. Yet the next tenants arrived with weekend guests who stayed all week, laughing loudly over barbecues past midnight. Olivia called twice, pleading for quiet; Edward found beer bottles tossed in the lilacs.
When they left, the cottage looked exhausted: juice-stained sofa, bin bags by the shed, cigarette butts beneath the apple tree.
How much more of this? Edward grumbled, clearing charred kebabs from the grill.
Olivia swallowed disappointment. Why couldnt people respect what wasnt theirs?
Maybe were too soft. We shouldve been firmer.
By August, another inquiry: a childless couple for a week. Olivia set terms upfrontdeposit, condition photos, no exceptions. They agreed easily, meeting at the gate under a sweltering noon sun.
Yet upon leaving, theyd ruined the microwave (metal inside), refusing to pay.
Its barely damaged! Just an accident! the woman protested.
Olivia bit back anger. Lets settle this calmly. We understand mistakes happen. Just cover the repair.
A compromise was reachedpart of the deposit keptbut as the gate clicked shut, relief tangled with exhaustion.
They couldnt go on like this.
That evening, heat lingering, shadows stretching across the lawn, they sat on the veranda with a notebook. The air smelled of cut grass and ripening apples. Olivia flipped through photos from the last tenancy, ticking off damages.
We need a proper checklist, she said quietly. So everyone knows the rules. Every detail: dishes, appliances, linens, bins.
Edward nodded. They drafted it togetherphotos on arrival/departure, deposits, key handovers. Instructions for appliances, emergency contacts. Wording mattered: firm but fair, leaving room for trust but no loopholes.
By nightfall, the list was typed up, photos sorted into folders. It felt like scrubbing away grime, inside and out.
The test came swiftly. In early August, a woman called, asked about rules, listened intently to terms. She arrived with her husband and teen daughterpolite, unhurried, noting where tools were kept, how to water the porch flowers.
Wed like two weeks, if thats alright, she said, signing the contract without fuss.
They toured the cottage together, snapping photos, discussing rubbish collection. Will we disturb you if you visit for the garden? the man asked.
Not at all, Olivia smiled. Just give us notice.
This time, everything changed. No complaints. When Olivia checked the greenhouse, the kitchen was spotless, a bowl of strawberries on the table with a note: *Thanks for trusting us. Alls well.*
Edward peeked in the shedbikes and tools untouched. No bottles, no butts. Even the microwave gleamed.
On moving day, they walked through together, ticking off the checklist. Not a scratch. Linens washed, folded.
Your instructions made it easy, the woman said at the gate.
Olivia returned the deposit, smiling cautiously. The contract and checklist went into a folderready for next season.
By Augusts end, days grew crisper, mornings misty over the vegetable patch. They harvested the last courgettes, pruned the currant bushes. The cottage smelled of apples and fresh laundry.
Theyd learned to say no without guilt, set rules without resentment. The checklist wasnt suspicionit was care, for the house and its guests.
Feels lighter now, Edward admitted one evening, gazing at the darkening garden. I worried too many rules would scare people off. But decent folks prefer clarity.
Olivia smiled from the hall, arms full of apples. Trust hadnt vanishedit had grown wiser.
In September, they relisted the cottage, this time with confidence. Photos showed rooms, the garden, even the checklist on the table.
Enquiries came fastsensible questions about heating, transport. One reply stood out: *Thanks for the honesty. Rare these days.*
They planned the next season without dread. Peace was possible. You just had to pay attentionto yourself, and to those borrowing your home.
On the last evening, a quiet wind rustled the trees. Edward locked the shed, joined Olivia on the veranda.
Think weve missed anything? he asked.
No. Weve got the important bits. Just need to remember were dealing with people.
They sat side by side, watching the garden. Ahead lay a new season, new facesthis time, without fear of losing what mattered.
