**The Season of Trust**
Early in May, when the grass had thickened to a lush green and the morning dew still clung to the veranda windows, Olivia and Henry found themselves seriously considering renting out their cottage without an agency for the first time. The idea had simmered for weeksfriends swapped horror stories about commission fees, and online forums brimmed with disgruntled reviews of estate agents. But more than that, they wanted to choose *who* they entrusted with the place where theyd spent every summer for the past fifteen years.
A cottage isnt just square footage, Henry remarked, carefully pruning dry raspberry canes and glancing at his wife. Wed like people to treat it with respect, not like some disposable holiday let.
Olivia, wiping her hands on a tea towel by the porch, nodded. This year, theyd decided to stay in London longertheir daughter had important exams, and Olivia wanted to help. The cottage would sit empty most of the summer, and the bills wouldnt pay themselves. Renting it out seemed the obvious solution.
That evening, after supper, they wandered through the house with fresh eyes, noting what needed tidying or stowing away. Books and family photos went into boxes and onto high shelves; fresh linens were folded neatly in the cupboards. Olivia sorted through the kitchen, leaving only the essentials.
Lets document everything, Henry suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed each room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle propped by the shedjust in case. Olivia jotted down details: how many saucepans, which quilts were on the beds, where the spare keys were hidden.
The next afternoon, as the first proper May rain soaked the garden into puddles, they listed the cottage online. The photos turned out brightsunlight streaming through the windows, tomato plants stretching towards the greenhouse, dandelions crowding the path to the gate.
Waiting for responses was equal parts thrilling and nerve-wracking, like preparing for guests without knowing whod arrive. Enquiries came quickly: one caller asked about Wi-Fi and TV, another whether dogs or children were allowed. Olivia answered honestly and thoroughlyshed once rented places herself and knew the value of small comforts.
The first tenants arrived at the end of Maya young couple with a seven-year-old and a medium-sized dog (completely quiet, theyd promised over the phone). They signed a simple agreement on the spotnames, payment terms, nothing official. Olivia felt a flicker of worryit wasnt legally binding, but for a summer let, it seemed enough.
The first week passed peacefully. Olivia visited weekly to check the garden and water the greenhouse tomatoes, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread from town. The tenants were friendlytheir child waved from the kitchen window, the dog trotted to greet her at the gate.
Then, three weeks in, the rent payments started lagging. First, it was bank delays, then unexpected expenses.
Why must everything be so *difficult*? Henry muttered one evening, scrolling through messages as the sunset streaked gold across the kitchen floor.
Olivia tried gentle reminders, offering instalments, but each conversation left her draineda mix of frustration and awkward politeness. 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 was piled under the veranda, and the kitchen table bore paint stains.
So much for completely quiet, Henry sighed, eyeing the claw marks on the pantry door.
They spent the day scrubbinghauling out bins, scouring the oven, bundling stained towels into the wash. The strawberries by the fence were ripening; Olivia absentmindedly plucked a handful, still warm from the rain.
Afterwards, they debated: should they even keep trying? Maybe an agency *was* worth the fee? But the thought of strangers managing their homeor taking a cut just for handing over keysfelt wrong.
By midsummer, they tried again, this time stricter: upfront payment, clearer rules, vetting tenants more carefully.
The new lot were worse. A family of three arrived on a Saturday evening and promptly hosted guests for just a couple of daysexcept the parties dragged on all week, with late-night barbecues and laughter booming across the garden. Olivia phoned repeatedly, pleading for quiet after 11 p.m.; Henry found empty bottles tossed under the lilac bushes.
When they left, the cottage looked exhausted: juice (or wine?) splattered the sofa, bin bags slumped by the shed, and cigarette butts littered the grass beneath the apple tree.
How much more of this can we take? Henry grumbled, poking at abandoned kebabs on the grill.
Olivia felt the sting of unfairnesswhy did people treat someone elses home this way?
Maybe its our fault, she mused. We shouldve been firmer from the start.
In August, another enquiry camea young couple, no kids, just a weeks stay. Olivia was meticulous: she outlined every rule, insisted on move-in photos, and demanded a security deposit. The tenants agreed without fuss, meeting them at the gate under a sweltering noon sun, the air humming with insects.
Yet when they left, the microwave was ruined (someone had microwaved foil), and the couple balked at paying.
It was an *accident*! the woman protested.
Olivia bit back her anger. Lets solve this calmly. Well deduct the repair from your depositno arguments needed.
After tense negotiation, they settled on a partial refund. As the gate clicked shut behind the couple, Henry and Olivia stood in the quiet garden, feeling equal parts relief and exhaustion.
They knew: this couldnt continue.
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 cut grass and ripening fruit. Olivia flipped through move-in photos, ticking off repairs needed.
Well make a proper checklist, she said. So tenants know *exactly* whats expected. Room by room: crockery, appliances, linens, bins.
Henry nodded. They drafted guidelines togethermove-in photos *with* tenants, a security deposit clause, key-handover steps. They listed how appliances worked, what to do if something broke. Every line aimed for clarity without hostilitytrust, but with boundaries. Olivia insisted on including her number: If theres trouble, call *immediately*.
By nightfall, the checklist was typed up neatly. Photos were sorted into folders: *Before, After, Handover*. It felt like tidying not just the cottage, but their peace of mind.
The test came swiftly. In early August, a woman phoned, listened attentively to the rules, and arrived with her husband and teenage daughter. They seemed thoughtfulasking where tools were kept, if they could use the bikes, how often to water the porch flowers.
Wed love to stay two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the contract without quibbling.
Together, they toured the cottage, noting furniture dings and appliance settings. Olivia showed them spare lightbulbs, the hose timer. The family took photos, even asked about recycling.
Would it bother you if we picked some produce? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Olivia smiled. Just give us a heads-up.
This time, everything *worked*. No complaints, no mess. When Olivia visited, the kitchen was spotless, a bowl of strawberries on the table with a note: *Thanks for trusting us. Alls well.*
Henry peeked in the shedbikes upright, tools tidy. No bottles or butts in sight. Even the microwave gleamed.
On moving-out day, they reviewed the checklist together: no new scratches, linens laundered and folded.
Your instructions made it easy, the woman said at goodbye.
Olivia smiled cautiouslythe wariness still there, but lighter now. They returned the deposit without fuss, filing the contract away for next season.
By September, the days grew shorter, the mornings misty over the vegetable beds. Olivia and Henry harvested the last courgettes, pruned the blackcurrant bushes. The cottage smelled of apples and clean laundry.
Theyd learned to say *no* without guilt, to set rules without sounding cross. The checklist wasnt a barrierit was care, for the house and the people in it.
Feels better, doesnt it? Henry said one evening, gazing at the darkening garden. I used to worry: too many rules would scare folks off. But decent tenants *want* clarity.
Olivia grinned from the hallway, arms laden with apples. The trust wasnt goneit had just grown wiser.
When they relisted the cottage, the ad brimmed with details: rules, photos, even a snapshot of the checklist on the table. Enquiries came promptlysensible questions about heating, transport. One message read: *Thanks for being so thorough. Rare these days.*
They discussed the next summer without dread. Peace *was* possibleit just required attention, to their home and to the people borrowing it.
On their last evening, the garden rustled softly in the breeze. Henry latched the shed
