**The Season of Trust**
At the start of May, when the grass had deepened to a lush green and the mornings still left dewdrops clinging to the veranda windows, Olivia and Edward seriously considered renting out their cottage without an agency. The idea had simmered for weeksfriends shared stories of steep commissions, online forums buzzed with complaints about estate agents. But the real reason was simpler: they wanted to choose who stayed in the house where theyd spent the last fifteen summers.
A cottage isnt just square footage, Edward said, carefully pruning dry branches from the raspberry bushes, glancing at Olivia. We want someone 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 stayed in London longertheir daughter had exams, and Olivia had promised to help. The cottage would sit empty most of the summer, yet the bills wouldnt stop. Renting it out seemed the only sensible choice.
That evening, after supper, they walked through the housea familiar routine, but now with a critical eye. What needed tidying? What should be stored away? Family photos and books went into boxes, tucked into the loft. Fresh linen was folded neatly by the beds. In the kitchen, Olivia sorted the crockery, keeping only the essentials.
Lets document everything, Edward suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed each room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle leaning against the shedjust in case. Olivia jotted down details: how many saucepans, which quilts were on the beds, where the spare keys were kept.
The next afternoon, as the first May rain pattered against the windows and puddles spread across the garden, they listed the cottage online. The photos turned out brighttomato plants stretched towards the greenhouse, dandelions dotted the path to the gate.
Waiting for responses was nerve-wracking yet oddly thrilling, like preparing for guests whose faces you couldnt picture. Enquiries came quickly: some asked about Wi-Fi, others if pets or children were allowed. Olivia answered honestlyshed once searched for rentals herself and knew how much the little things mattered.
The first tenants arrived at the end of Maya young couple with a seven-year-old and a medium-sized dog. Over the phone, theyd promised the pet was absolutely no trouble. They signed a simple agreement on the spotnames, payment terms, nothing formal. Olivia hesitatedit wasnt legally binding, but for the season, it felt enough.
At first, all went smoothly. Olivia visited weekly to check the garden and water the greenhouse tomatoes, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread. The tenants were friendlytheir child waved from the kitchen window, the dog trotted to the gate to greet her.
Then, after three weeks, payments lagged. Excuses trickled inbank errors, unexpected expenses.
Why do we even bother with this stress? Edward muttered one evening, scrolling through messages as sunset streaked gold across the kitchen floor.
Olivia tried to stay polite, nudging them gently, offering flexibility. But each conversation left her tense, a dull weariness settling in her bones.
By mid-June, it was clear: the tenants planned to leave early, with part of the rent unpaid. When they finally left, the cottage reeked of cigarettes (despite the no-smoking rule), rubbish piled under the veranda, and paint stains smeared the kitchen table.
So much for no trouble, Edward said, eyeing the claw marks on the pantry door.
They spent the day cleaning in silencehauling out rubbish, scrubbing the oven, bundling stained towels for the wash. Strawberries ripened by the fence; Olivia plucked a handful, still warm from the rain, sweet on her tongue.
After that, they debated giving up altogether. Maybe an agency was worth the fee? But the thought of strangers managing their home, taking a cut just for handing over keys, felt wrong.
By midsummer, they tried againthis time, more cautious. They vetted tenants carefully, took a months rent upfront, spelled out the rules.
Yet the next guests were worse. A couple and their teenager arrived late on a Saturday and promptly invited friends over for a few days. The few days stretched into a weekraucous laughter, barbecues burning late into the night.
Olivia called repeatedly, begging for quiet after eleven; Edward drove over to find empty bottles strewn beneath the lilac bushes.
When they left, the cottage looked exhaustedjuice (or wine?) splattered the sofa, bin bags slumped by the shed, cigarette butts littered the grass under the apple tree.
How much more of this can we take? Edward grumbled, scraping charred meat from the barbecue.
Olivias disappointment festered. It wasnt fairhow could people treat someone elses home this way?
Maybe its our fault. We shouldve been stricter.
In August, another enquiry camea childless couple wanting the cottage for a week. Olivia was meticulous: she laid out every condition, insisted on photos before and after, demanded a deposit.
The tenants agreed without protest. They met at the gate under a sweltering noon sun, the air shimmering above the path.
But when they left, the microwave was ruinedsomeone had heated foil. They refused to pay.
We barely damaged anything! It was an accident! the woman argued.
For the first time all summer, Olivia felt real angerbut she swallowed it.
Lets handle this calmly. Accidents happen. Just compensate us fairly.
After a tense discussion, they settled on keeping part of the deposit. The couple left without further fuss.
As the gate clicked shut, the garden humming with bees, Olivia and Edward exhaledrelief tangled with exhaustion.
They knew this couldnt go on.
That evening, as the heat lingered and the apple trees shadow stretched across the lawn, they sat on the veranda with a notebook. The air smelled of grass and ripening fruit. Olivia flipped through photos from the last check-in, ticking off what needed fixing.
We need a proper list, she said quietly. So everyone knows the rules. Everythingdishes, appliances, linen, rubbish.
Edward nodded. He was tired of the hassle, but they couldnt keep repeating mistakes. They wrote it all down: photos taken together at arrival and departure, deposit terms, key handover, appliance instructions, damage protocol.
They weighed each wordfirm but not hostile, trusting yet clear. Olivia insisted on including a contact number: If somethings wrong, call us straight away.
By nightfall, the list was finishedneatly copied into a notebook, then typed up. Photos were sorted into folders: before, after, arrival, departure. It felt like scrubbing away more than just stainslike clearing a space in their minds too.
The test came quickly. In early August, a woman called, listened carefully to the rules, asked thoughtful questions. She arrived with her husband and teenage daughtercalm, unhurried. They asked 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 hesitation.
Together, they inspected the cottage, noting the state of furniture and appliances. Olivia showed them spare lightbulbs, how to work the garden pump. The family took photos, even asked where to take the bins.
Will we disturb you if you come to check the garden? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Olivia smiled. Just let us know.
This time, everything changed. For two weeks, no complaints. When Olivia stopped by, the kitchen was spotless, a bowl of strawberries on the table with a note: *Thank you for trusting us. Alls well.*
Edward peeked in the shedbikes in place, tools tidy. No bottles, no butts. Fallen leaves had been swept from under the apple tree. Even the microwave gleamed, wiped clean.
On moving-out day, the family met them at the gate. They walked through the cottage together, checking the listno new scratches, linen washed and folded.
Your instructions made it easy, the woman said at the door. Clear for us, fair for you.
Olivia smiled cautiouslyold wariness still there, but lighter now. They returned the deposit without quibbling. The contract and checklist went into a folderready for next season.
August waned. Mornings grew crisper, mist curling over the vegetable patches. Olivia and Edward gathered the last courgettes and peppers, pruned the currant bushes. The cottage smelled of apples and clean laundry.
That summer, theyd learned to say no without guilt, to set rules without resentment. The checklist wasnt about suspicionit was care, for the house and the people in it.
Feels easier now, Edward admitted one evening, gazing at the darkening garden. I used to worrytoo many rules would scare people off. But honest tenants prefer clarity.
Olivia smiled from the hallway, arms laden with apples. Trust hadnt vanishedit had just grown wiser.
In September, they listed the cottage againno anxiety this time, just quiet confidence. The ad detailed every rule, even included photos of the checklist
