The Season of Trust
At the start of May, when the grass had turned lush and green and the morning dew still clung to the veranda windows, Emma and James seriously considered renting out their cottage themselves, without an agency. The idea had been brewing for weeksfriends shared horror stories about fees, and online forums were full of complaints about unreliable agents. But more than that, they wanted to decide who they trusted with the place where they’d spent the last fifteen summers.
“A cottage isnt just square footage,” James said, trimming dry branches from the raspberry bushes and glancing at his wife. “We want people wholl treat it with respect, not like a hotel.”
Emma wiped her hands on a tea towel by the porch and nodded. This year, theyd decided to stay in London longertheir daughter was starting an important school term, and Emma wanted to help. The cottage would stand empty most of the summer, and the upkeep costs wouldnt wait. Renting it out seemed the obvious choice.
That evening, after supper, they walked through the house with fresh eyesnoting what needed tidying, what should be locked away. Books and family photos went into boxes stored in the loft, while fresh linens were left neatly folded. Emma sorted the kitchenware, keeping out only the essentials.
“Lets document everything,” James suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed every room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle by the shedjust in case. Emma jotted down details: how many pots, which blankets were on the beds, where the spare keys were hidden.
The next afternoon, as the first May rain soaked the garden, they listed the cottage online. The photos looked brighttomato plants stretched towards the greenhouse, and dandelions dotted the path to the gate.
Waiting for responses felt both thrilling and uneasy, like preparing for guests without knowing whod arrive. Calls came quicklysome asked about Wi-Fi, others if pets or children were allowed. Emma answered honestly, remembering her own searches for rentals and 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, which they promised was “perfectly quiet.” They signed a simple contract on the spot, just names and payment terms. Emma was nervousit wasnt legally registered, but for a summer let, it seemed enough.
The first week went smoothly. Emma visited once to check the garden and water the tomatoes, bringing fresh towels and bread from town. The tenants were friendlythe child waved from the kitchen window, the dog trotted to greet her.
Then, three weeks in, the payments started lagging. First, it was forgetfulness, then bank errors, then unexpected expenses.
“Why put ourselves through this stress?” James muttered one evening, scrolling through messages as the sunset streaked gold across the kitchen floor.
Emma tried to be patientgentle reminders, offers to split payments. But each call left her drained, an awkward weariness settling in.
By mid-June, it was clear: the tenants planned to leave early without paying the full amount. When they left, the cottage smelled of cigarettes (despite the no-smoking rule), rubbish was piled under the veranda, and paint stains marred the kitchen table.
“So much for a perfectly quiet dog,” James sighed, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent the day cleaninghauling rubbish, scrubbing the stove, bundling stained towels for the wash. The strawberries by the fence were ripening; Emma picked a handful, still warm from the rain.
After that, they debated giving up. Maybe an agency was worth the fee? But the thought of strangers managing their home felt wrong.
By midsummer, they tried againthis time vetting tenants carefully, taking a months rent upfront, and explaining the rules in detail.
The next group was worse. A family of three arrived on a Saturday evening and immediately hosted guests for “a couple of days.” The gatherings lasted all weekloud laughter, barbecues burning late.
Emma called repeatedly, asking for quiet after eleven; James found empty bottles tossed under the lilac bushes.
When they left, the cottage looked exhaustedjuice (or wine?) stains on the sofa, bin bags by the shed, cigarette butts beneath the apple tree.
“How much more of this can we take?” James grumbled, clearing the barbecue ashes.
Emma felt the sting of disappointment. Why couldnt people respect someone elses home?
“Maybe were too soft. We shouldve been firmer.”
In August, another inquiry camea young couple, no children, just a weeks stay. Emma was meticulous: she outlined every rule, insisted on check-in photos, and took a deposit.
The tenants agreed without complaint, meeting at the gate under a sweltering noon sun. But when they left, the microwave was ruinedtheyd heated foiland refused to pay.
“We barely damaged anything! It was an accident!” the woman argued.
Emma bit back her anger. “Lets settle this calmly. Accidents happen, but we need to agree on compensation.”
After a tense discussion, they kept part of the deposit, and the couple left without a scene.
As the gate clicked shut, leaving only the hum of bees on the terrace, Emma and James felt a strange mix of relief and exhaustion.
They knew this couldnt go on.
That evening, as the apple trees shadow stretched across the garden, they sat on the veranda with a notebook. The air smelled of grass and ripening fruit. Emma flipped through check-in photos, ticking off what needed fixing.
“We need a proper checklist,” she said. “So everyone knows exactly whats expecteddishes, appliances, linens, rubbish.”
James nodded, tired but resolved. They drafted rules for photos at check-in and check-out, clarified the deposit, listed how to use appliances, and left a contact number for emergencies. They debated wordingfirm but fair, so guests felt welcomed, not policed.
By nightfall, the list was typed up, photos organised into folders. It felt like washing away more than just stainslike clearing a corner of their minds, too.
The test came soon. A woman called in early August, listened carefully to the new rules, and arrived with her husband and teenage daughter. 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 fuss.
Together, they inspected the cottage, noting the state of everything. Emma showed them spare lightbulbs, how to work the water pump. The family took photos, even asked about bin collection.
“Will we bother you if you come to check the garden?” the man asked, holding the gate open.
“Not at all,” Emma smiled. “Just give us a heads-up.”
This time, everything was different. No complaints, no mess. When Emma visited, the kitchen was spotless, a bowl of strawberries on the table with a note: *Thanks for trusting us. Alls well.*
James checked the shedbikes and tools untouched. No bottles or butts in sight. Even the microwave gleamed.
At checkout, they walked through together, ticking off the list. Not a scratch, the linens washed and folded.
“Your instructions made it easier for everyone,” the woman said warmly.
Emma smiled cautiously, lighter for the first time all summer. They returned the deposit without hesitation, filing the contract away for next season.
August waned, days growing shorter and cooler. Emma and James gathered the last vegetables, pruned the currant bushes. The cottage smelled of apples and clean laundry.
Theyd learned to say no without guilt, to set rules without resentment. The checklist wasnt suspicionit was care, for the house and the people in it.
“Its easier this way,” James admitted one evening, watching the darkening garden. “I used to worry: too many rules would scare people off. But honest tenants prefer clarity.”
Emma smiled from the hallway, arms full of apples. The trust wasnt gonejust wiser, more guarded, but not shut away.
In September, they listed the cottage againno longer anxious, but confident. The ad detailed every rule, even included photos of the checklist.
Responses came fast, questions practical: heating, transport. One young man wrote, *Thanks for the honestyits rare.*
They discussed the next summer without dread. Peace was possiblethey just had to be careful, with themselves and those who borrowed their home.
On the last evening, as a breeze rustled the trees and a distant dog barked, James locked the shed and joined Emma on the veranda.
“Think weve missed anything in the rules?” he asked.
“No. Weve learned the important bitjust dont forget to be human.”
They sat together, watching the garden. Ahead lay a new season, new facesno longer fearing what they might lose.
