**The Season of Trust**
Early in May, when the grass had thickened to a lush green and morning dew still clung to the veranda windows, Emily and James found themselves seriously considering renting out their cottage without an agent. The idea had simmered for weeksfriends shared horror stories about fees, and forums bristled with complaints about estate agents. But more than that, they wanted to choose who entered the home where theyd spent the last fifteen summers.
“Its not just square footage,” James said, carefully pruning dry raspberry canes, glancing at his wife. “We want people wholl treat it with respect, not like some budget hotel.”
Emily wiped her hands on a tea towel by the porch and nodded. This year, theyd stay in London longertheir daughter had important exams, and Emily would help. The cottage would sit empty all summer, yet the bills wouldnt stop. The solution seemed obvious.
That evening, after supper, they walked through the housetheir usual routine, but now with fresh eyes. What needed tidying? What should be locked away? Books and family photos went into boxes, stored in the loft; fresh linens were folded neatly. In the kitchen, Emily pared down to 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 notes: how many pots, which quilts, where the spare keys were hidden.
Days later, as the first May rain pattered against the windows, they listed the cottage online. The photos looked invitingsunlight filtering through the greenhouse where tomato vines stretched upward, dandelions crowding the garden path.
Waiting for replies was a mix of nerves and excitementlike preparing for guests without knowing whod arrive. Calls came quickly: questions about Wi-Fi, whether pets or children were allowed. Emily answered honestly, recalling her own searches for rentals.
The first tenants arrived late Maya young couple with a seven-year-old and a medium-sized dog (“utterly quiet,” they promised). They signed a simple contract on the spot, passports noted, terms agreed. Emily hesitatedit wasnt official, but for a summer let, it felt enough.
The first days passed smoothly. Emily visited weekly to tend the greenhouse, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread. The tenants were friendlythe child waved from the kitchen, the dog trotted to greet her.
Then, three weeks in, payments lagged. Excuses piled up: bank errors, unexpected expenses.
“Why must we deal with this?” James muttered one evening, scrolling through texts as golden light slanted through the apple trees.
Emily tried diplomacygentle reminders, offers to split payments. But tension coiled tighter after each call, leaving her drained.
By mid-June, it was clear: the tenants would leave early, unpaid. When they did, the cottage reeked of cigarettes (despite the no-smoking rule), rubbish littered the patio, and paint stains marred the kitchen table.
“Utterly quiet dog, my foot,” James said, eyeing claw marks on the pantry door.
They cleaned in silence all dayscrubbing the oven, hauling stained linens to the wash. Strawberries ripened by the fence; between chores, Emily plucked a handful, still warm from the rain.
Afterward, they debated: was it worth continuing? Maybe an agency was safer. Yet the thought of strangers profiting from their home sat wrong.
By midsummer, they tried againchoosing tenants more carefully, requiring a months rent upfront, outlining rules clearly.
But the next group was worse: a couple with a teen arrived Saturday evening and promptly hosted a “couple-day” gathering that stretched into a week-long raucous party. Emily phoned repeatedly, begging for quiet after 11 p.m.; James found beer bottles tossed beneath the lilacs.
When they left, the cottage looked wearywine stains on the sofa (or juice? Unclear), bin bags abandoned by the shed, cigarette butts under the apple tree.
“How much more of this?” James grumbled, clearing charred kebabs from the grill.
Emilys disappointment hardened. It felt unjust, this disregard for a home that wasnt theirs.
“Maybe were too soft. We shouldve been firmer.”
In August, another request: a childless couple for a week. Emily was meticulousterms clarified upfront, a deposit taken, photos of the cottages condition required.
The tenants agreed readily, meeting at the gate on a sweltering noon. But upon leaving, theyd ruined the microwave (metal inside), refusing compensation.
“We barely did anything! It was an accident!” the woman protested.
Emily bit back anger. “Lets settle this calmly. Well take part of the deposit for repairs.”
A compromise was struckno shouting, just weary resignation as the gate clicked shut behind them.
That evening, heat lingering, they sat on the veranda with a notebook. The scent of grass and ripening apples hung thick. Emily flipped through photos from the last tenancy, ticking off damages.
“We need a proper checklist,” she said. “So everyone knows the rules. Itemised: crockery, appliances, linens, rubbish.”
James nodded. Tired of the hassle, but knowing it was necessary. They added clauses for joint photo inspections, deposits, key handovers. Instructions for appliances, steps if something broke. They debated phrasingnot hostile, but clear. Emily insisted: a contact number for emergencies.
By nightfall, the checklist was typed up, photos sorted into foldersbefore, after, arrival, departure. It felt lighter, as if theyd scrubbed more than just the kitchen.
The test came swiftly. In early August, a woman called, listened carefully to the rules, and arrived with her husband and teen daughter. They asked about garden tools, the bicycle, watering the pansies by the step.
“Wed love to stay two weeks,” she said, signing the contract without fuss.
Together, they toured the house, noting each items condition. Emily showed them the spare bulbs, the water pump. The family took photos, even asked where to toss recycling.
“Will we disturb you if you come for the harvest?” the man asked, holding the gate open.
“Not at all,” Emily smiled. “Just give us notice.”
This time, everything changed. No complaints. When Emily visited, the kitchen was spotless, a bowl of strawberries left with a note: *Thanks for trusting us. Alls well.*
James checked the shedbikes upright, tools tidy. No bottles or butts. Even the microwave was wiped clean.
On moving-out day, they walked through together, cross-referencing the list. Not a scratch on the furniture, linens laundered and folded.
“Your instructions made it easier for us too,” the woman said at the gate.
Emily smiled guardedlystill cautious, but relieved. The deposit was returned without quibble. The contract and checklist were filed away for next season.
August waned. Mornings grew crisp, mist clinging to the vegetable beds. They harvested the last courgettes, 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 spite. The checklist wasnt suspicionit was care, for the house and its guests.
“Feels easier now,” James admitted one evening, gazing at the shadowed garden. “I worried too many rules would scare people off. But decent folks prefer clarity.”
Emily grinned from the hallway, arms laden with apples. Trust hadnt vanishedit had grown wiser, more guarded, but not closed.
Come September, they relisted the cottageno longer anxious, just sure of their approach. The ad detailed every rule, even photos of the checklist on the table.
Replies came fast. Practical questions: heating, transport. One message stood out: *Thanks for the honesty. Rare these days.*
They discussed next summer without weariness. Peace was possiblethey just had to pay attention, to themselves and those whod borrow their home.
The final evening was hushed, a breeze rustling the trees. James locked the shed, rejoining Emily on the veranda.
“Think weve missed anything in the rules?” he asked.
“No. Weve learned enough. Justdont forget to be human.”
Side by side, they watched the garden. Ahead lay a new season, new facesno longer fearing what might be lost.
