The Season of Trust
At the beginning of May, when the grass had turned lush and green and dew still clung to the porch windows in the mornings, Emily and James seriously considered renting out their cottage themselves, without an agency. The idea had been growing for weeksfriends shared stories about hefty fees, and online forums were full of complaints about unreliable estate agents. But more than that, they wanted to decide for themselves who would stay in the home where theyd spent the last fifteen summers.
“A cottage isnt just square footage,” James said, carefully pruning dead branches from the raspberry bushes and glancing at his wife. “We want people to treat it with respect, not like some holiday flat.”
Emily wiped her hands on a tea towel, standing by the doorstep, and nodded. This year, they were staying in London longertheir daughter was starting a crucial stage in her studies, and Emily wanted to be there. The cottage would sit empty most of the summer, yet the upkeep costs wouldnt disappear. Renting it out seemed the obvious solution.
That evening, after supper, they walked through the housea familiar route, now with a new purpose. What needed tidying? What should be put away? Family photos and books went into boxes and up to the loft; fresh bedding was neatly folded in the cupboards. In the kitchen, Emily sorted the dishes, leaving only the essentials.
“Lets document everything,” James suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed each room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle by the shedjust in case. Emily jotted down details: how many pots, which quilts were on the beds, where the spare keys were kept.
A day later, as the first May rain drizzled over the garden, they posted the listing online. The photos turned out brightsunlight streamed through the windows, catching the tomato plants stretching toward the greenhouse and the dandelions lining the path to the gate.
Waiting for replies was both exciting and uneasylike expecting guests when everythings ready, but you dont yet know wholl walk through the door. Calls came quickly: some asked about Wi-Fi and the telly, others if dogs or children were allowed. Emily answered honestly and thoroughlyshed once searched for holiday lets herself and knew the importance of small details.
The first renters arrived at the end of Maya young couple with a seven-year-old and a medium-sized dog, assuring them over the phone that the pet was “perfectly quiet.” They signed a simple agreement on the spot, with passport details and payment terms. Emily felt a flicker of worryit wasnt an official contract, but for a summer let, it seemed enough.
The first days went smoothly. Emily visited weekly to check the garden and water the greenhouse tomatoesbringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread from town. The family was friendly: the child waved from the kitchen window, the dog trotted to greet her at the gate.
But after three weeks, the rent started coming late. First, it was forgotten transfers or bank errors, then excuses about unexpected expenses.
“Why put ourselves through this stress?” James muttered that evening, scrolling through messages as the sun dipped behind the apple trees, casting golden streaks across the kitchen floor.
Emily tried to be patient, gently reminding them, even offering to split the payment. Yet each conversation left her drained, a knot of frustration tightening in her chest.
By mid-June, it was clear: the family planned to leave early without paying in full. When they moved out, the cottage smelled of cigarettes (despite the no-smoking rule), rubbish was piled under the deck, and paint stains marked the kitchen table.
“Some perfectly quiet dog,” James said, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent the day cleaning in silencehauling out bins, scrubbing the stove, bundling stained towels for the wash. The strawberries by the fence were ripening; between tasks, Emily picked a handful, still warm from the afternoon sun.
After that, they debated: was it worth continuing? Maybe an agency was the safer choice. Yet the thought of strangers managing their homeor taking a cut just for handing over keysfelt wrong.
By mid-summer, they tried again, this time stricter: asking for a months rent upfront, vetting renters carefully, laying out rules clearly.
But the next lot was worse. A couple with a teenager arrived late on a Saturday and promptly invited friends over “for the weekend.” The “weekend” stretched into days of loud laughter, barbecues burning late, empty bottles under the lilac bushes.
Emily called repeatedly, asking for quiet after eleven; James drove over and found the garden littered with rubbish. When they finally left, the sofa was stained, bin bags piled by the shed, and cigarette butts dotted the grass under the apple tree.
“How much more of this can we take?” James grumbled, clearing charred kebabs from the grill.
Emily felt a swell of resentment. Why couldnt people treat someone elses home with care?
“Maybe its our fault. We shouldve been firmer from the start.”
In August, another enquiry camea young couple, no kids, just a weeks stay. Wary now, Emily outlined every condition upfront: a security deposit, photos of the cottage before and after, no parties. They agreed without protest, meeting at the gate on a sweltering afternoon, the air humming with bees.
Yet at checkout, the microwave was ruinedtheyd heated foil. “It was an accident!” the woman insisted. “Hardly any damage!”
For the first time all summer, Emilys temper flaredbut she bit back sharp words. “Lets settle this calmly. We understand mistakes happen. Just cover the repair, and well leave it at that.”
A compromise was reached: part of the deposit covered the damage, and they parted without a row.
As the gate clicked shut, leaving only heat and the drone of wasps under the eaves, James and Emily felt an odd mix of relief and exhaustion.
They knew: this couldnt go on.
That evening, with the apple trees shadow stretching across the lawn, they sat on the porch with a notebook. The air smelled of cut grass and ripening fruit. Emily flipped through checkout photos, ticking off what needed fixing.
“We need a proper list,” she said. “So everyone knows the rules. Itemised: crockery, appliances, linen, rubbish.”
James nodded. He was tired of the hassle but saw the sense in it. They drafted a checklistphotos taken together at arrival and departure, a security deposit, key handover instructions. They listed how to use appliances, what to do if something broke.
They weighed each phrasenot to sound hostile, but to make guests feel welcome yet accountable. Emily insisted on including a contact number: “If theres an issue, call straight away.”
By nightfall, the list was typed up neatly, photos sorted into folders: before, after, check-in, checkout. It felt like scrubbing more than just the kitchen tablelike clearing a weight off their shoulders.
The test came quickly. In early August, a woman rang, listened carefully to the rules, asked thoughtful questions. She arrived with her husband and teen daughtera quiet family, unhurried, asking where tools were kept, if they could use the bikes, how often to water the porch flowers.
“Wed like to stay two weeks, if thats alright,” the woman said, signing the contract without fuss.
Together, they toured the cottage, noting the state of furniture and fittings. Emily showed them spare lightbulbs, how to work the hose. The family took photos, even asked where to take the recycling.
“Will we be in the way if you come for the veg?” the husband asked, holding the gate open.
“Not at all,” Emily smiled. “Just give us a heads-up.”
This time, everything was different. No complaints, no mess. When Emily visited, the kitchen was spotless, a bowl of strawberries on the table with a note: “Thanks for trusting us. Alls well.”
James peeked in the shedbikes and tools untouched. No bottles or butts in sight. Even the microwave gleamed.
On moving-out day, they met at the gate. Together, they checked every item off the list. Not a single new scratch; the linens washed and folded.
“Your instructions made it easy,” the woman said warmly. “Clear for us, fair for you.”
Emily smiled cautiouslystill guarded, but lighter-hearted. They returned the deposit without quibble, tucking the contract and checklist into a folder for next season.
August waned. Mornings grew crisper; mist clung to the vegetable patch as Emily and James gathered the last courgettes and peppers, pruned the currant bushes. The cottage smelled of apples and fresh laundry.
That summer, theyd learned to say “no” without guilt, to set rules without sounding sharp. The checklist wasnt about suspicionit was care, for the house and the people in it.
“Feels easier now,” James admitted one evening, gazing at the darkening garden. “I used to worry: too many rules would scare folks off. But honest people prefer clarity.”
Emily smiled from the hallway, arms full of apples. The trust wasnt goneit had just grown wiser, more careful, but not closed off.
In September, they reposted the listingno longer anxious, but confident in their approach. The description laid out every
