**The Season of Trust**
Early in May, when the grass had turned lush and mornings still left dew on the conservatory windows, Emily and James seriously considered renting out their cottage themselves, without an agent. The idea had been brewing for weeksfriends shared horror stories about agency fees, and online forums bristled with complaints about lettings. But the real reason was simpler: they wanted to choose who stayed in the place where theyd spent the last fifteen summers.
A cottage isnt just square footage, James said, trimming dry raspberry canes and glancing at his wife. We want people wholl treat it like a home, not a budget hotel.
Emily, wiping her hands on a tea towel by the porch, nodded. This year, they were staying in London longertheir daughter had exams, and Emily wanted to help. The cottage would sit empty most of the summer, and upkeep costs werent going anywhere. Renting it out seemed the obvious solution.
That evening, after supper, they walked through the house with fresh eyeswhat needed tidying, what to stash away. Books and family photos went into boxes in the loft; fresh linen stayed neatly folded. In the kitchen, Emily pared down to just the essentials.
Lets document everything, James suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed rooms, garden furniture, even the old bike by the shedjust in case. Emily jotted notes: how many saucepans, which duvets were on the beds, where the spare keys lived.
The next afternoon, as the first May rain pooled between the vegetable beds, they posted the listing. The photos looked invitingtomato vines stretching in the greenhouse, dandelions thick along the garden path.
Waiting for replies was equal parts thrilling and nerve-wrackinglike expecting guests when youre not quite sure wholl turn up. Calls came quickly: some asked about Wi-Fi, others about pets or kids. Emily answered honestly, remembering her own rental hunts and how details mattered.
The first tenants arrived late Maya young couple with a seven-year-old and a medium-sized dog (totally quiet, they promised). They signed a simple agreement on the spotjust names, dates, and rent in pounds. Emily hesitatedit wasnt legally registered, but for a summer let, it felt enough.
At first, all went smoothly. Emily visited weekly to check the garden and water the tomatoes, bringing fresh towels or bread from town. The tenants were friendlytheir child waved from the kitchen, the dog trotted to the gate.
Then, three weeks in, rent started arriving late. First, it was forgotten transfers, then unexpected expenses.
Why must everything be so needlessly stressful? James muttered one evening, scrolling through messages as sunset streaked the kitchen floor gold.
Emily tried reasongentle reminders, partial payments. But each call left her drained, a knot of frustration tightening in her chest.
By mid-June, it was clear: the tenants were leaving earlyand unpaid. When they left, the cottage reeked of cigarettes (despite the no-smoking rule), rubbish lurked under the deck, and the kitchen table bore paint stains.
So much for totally quiet, James sighed, eyeing claw marks on the pantry door.
They spent the day scrubbinghauling out bin bags, scouring the stove, bundling stained towels into the wash. By the fence, strawberries ripened; Emily plucked a handful, still warm from the rain.
After that, they debated giving up. An agency would handle the hasslebut letting strangers dictate their home felt wrong.
Mid-summer, they tried againstricter now, asking for a months rent upfront and laying out rules clearly.
The next tenants were worse. A family of three arrived Saturday eveningthen invited friends for a couple of days. The couple stretched into a week of late-night barbecues and laughter loud enough to rattle the herb garden.
Emily called repeatedly, begging for post-11pm quiet. James found beer bottles tossed into the lilacs.
When they left, the cottage looked exhaustedthe sofa stained with something unidentifiable, bin bags by the shed, cigarette butts under the apple tree.
How much more of this? James grumbled, poking at leftover charcoal in the grill.
Emilys disappointment simmered. Was it their fault? Should they have been firmer?
August brought new enquiriesa childless couple wanting a week. Wary now, Emily stressed the rules: a deposit, photos on arrival, no nonsense.
The tenants agreed readily. They met at the gate on a sweltering noon, cicadas humming in the heat.
Then, disaster: theyd microwaved foil, wrecking the ovenand refused to pay.
It was an accident! Barely any damage! the woman argued.
Emily bit back anger. Lets settle this calmly. We get that things happenjust cover the repair fairly.
A compromise was struckpart of the deposit keptand they left without a scene.
As the gate clicked shut, leaving only heat and bees buzzing under the pergola, relief and weariness tangled in Emily and James chests.
This couldnt go on.
That evening, with shadows stretching long from the apple tree, they sat on the porch with a notepad. The air smelled of grass and early windfalls. Emily flicked through photos from the last check-in, ticking off what needed fixing.
We need a proper checklist, she said. So everyone knows the drill. Point by point: crockery, appliances, linen, bins.
James nodded, tired but certain. They drafted it togetherphotos with tenants at arrival and departure, deposit terms, key handover. They listed appliance instructions, damage protocols.
Words were tweakednot hostile, but clear. Guests, not suspects. Trust, but boundaries. Emily insisted on adding a contact numberIf something breaks, call. Dont hide it.
By nightfall, the checklist was typed up, photos sorted into foldersbefore, after, inventory. It felt lighter, as if theyd scrubbed away more than just kitchen grime.
The test came swiftly. In early August, a woman called, asked about rules, listened carefully. She arrived with her husband and teen daughtercalm, unhurried. They asked about the garden hose, the bike, the flower beds.
Wed love two weeks, if thats alright, she said, signing the agreement without quibbling.
They toured the house together, noting furniture, appliances. Emily showed them spare bulbs, the water pump. The family took photos, even asked about recycling.
Will we be in your way if you come for the veg? the man asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Emily smiled. Just give us a heads-up.
This time, everything changed. No complaints. 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 neatly stored. No bottles, no butts. Fallen leaves swept under the apple tree. Even the microwave gleamed.
On departure day, they checked the house togetherno new scratches, linen washed and folded.
Your checklist made it easy, the woman said. Clear for everyone.
Emily smiled cautiously. The deposit was returned without fuss. The agreement filed awayready for next year.
August waned, days crisper now. They gathered the last courgettes, pruned the currant bushes. The cottage smelled of apples and clean sheets.
That summer, theyd learned to say no without guilt, to set rules without edge. The checklist wasnt suspicionit was care, for the house and its guests.
Feels easier now, James admitted one evening, watching dusk settle over the garden. I worried too many rules would scare people off. But decent folks prefer clarity.
Emily grinned from the hallway, arms full of windfalls. The trust wasnt gonejust wiser, sturdier.
Come September, they reposted the adno nerves this time, just clarity. Photos showed not just rooms, but the checklist on the table.
Enquiries rolled insensible questions about heating, transport. One message stood out: *Thanks for the honesty. Rare find.*
They planned next summer without dread. Calm was possibleyou just had to pay attention. To yourself, and to those borrowing your home.
On their last evening, the cottage quiet, James locked the shed and joined Emily on the porch.
Anything else to add to the rules? he asked.
She shook her head. Weve got the important bit. Just dont forget to be human.
They sat side by side, watching the garden. Ahead lay new seasons, new guestsno longer afraid of losing what mattered.
