The Charming Foreign Countryside Cottage

The Old Country Cottage

A year ago, the Wilsons bought a countryside cottage. After turning fifty, Peter felt a deep longing for a second home. His rural childhood reminded him of his familys old house and the joys of gardening.

The little house, though modest, had been well cared for. Peter repainted the wooden cabin, fixed the fence, and replaced the gate. There was enough land for potatoes and a few vegetables, but the orchard was lackingonly a handful of trees and no bushes, save for a small patch of raspberries.

“Dont worry, my love, well get it sorted in time,” Peter said as he set to work.

Margaret bustled between the flowerbeds, nodding at her husbands plans.

On one side, the neighbours were friendlythough they rarely visited, they kept their property tidy. But on the other side, it was utter neglect. The fence sagged, and tall weeds choked the land.

Those weeds became the Wilsons torment all summer.

“Peter, its unbearablethis grass is spilling into our garden. It feels like itll take over the whole plot,” Margaret complained.

Peter grabbed his hoe and attacked the weeds with vigour. But they were relentless, always creeping back.

“Margaret, looktheir pear trees will do well this year,” Peter remarked, eyeing the neighbours overgrown garden.

“And that apricot tree is exceptional,” Margaret replied, pointing to one laden with fruit. Some branches even stretched into their own garden.

“Id love to meet these owners just once,” Peter said wistfully. “Maybe theyll come to harvest at least.”

In spring, Peter couldnt resist watering the neighbours trees with his hoseit wouldve pained him to see them suffer in the heat.

But now, the endless weeds gave no respite.

“They couldve at least mowed once this summer,” Margaret grumbled.

The next time they arrived, the Wilsons marvelled at the apricots. For the region, they werent raremany grew thembut on a derelict property?

“No, Im cutting their grass,” Peter declared. “I cant stand watching this place suffocate under weeds.”

“Look, Peter,” Margaret said, gesturing at the heavy apricot branches drooping into their garden.

Peter fetched a small ladder. “Lets pick these before they rot. No ones shown up.”

“Thats stealing,” Margaret cautioned.

“Theyll go to waste anyway,” he said, plucking the ripest fruit first.

“Then lets pick raspberries for the grandchildren,” Margaret suggested. “Youve mowed their grassfairs fair.”

“Seems we could take it all. No one tends this place. It leans against our plot like an orphan, forgotten.”

(Originally inspired by artist Jean-Pierre Martin)

At work during a break, Peter joined his colleagues chatter. The delivery drivers swapped stories in a circle.

“Someone keeps sneaking into my garden the moment my backs turned,” lamented Nigel Harris, nearing retirement. “Theyve shaken my trees twice already.”

Peters forehead prickled with sweat. He thought of the apricots he and Margaret had pickedand the pears, promising a fine harvest.

“Wheres your cottage?” Peter dared to ask, dreading the answer.

“Down in the Kent Garden Association.”

“Ah,” Peter exhaled. “Ours is further up.”

“Things ripen earlier where you are,” Nigel admitted. “Ours come late, but they still raid itdug up some potato plants too. Makes me want to set a trap.”

“A trap could land you in jail,” one man warned.

“But stealings fine, is it?” Nigel snapped.

At home, Peter was haunted by guilty memories of picking their neighbours fruit. Even if it wasnt Nigels place, remorse gnawed at him.

As a boy, it was differenthed dashed through others gardens, but only a few times, just for fun.

This was different. Theyd taken apricots from unseen neighbours and eyed the pears.

True, Peter had planted young trees that would grow in time. But that apricot tree such a shame to let it waste.

“No ones coming,” Margaret soothed. “If they havent all year, they wont now.”

“But I feel like a thief,” Peter fretted.

“Want me to toss the apricots? Ive already given half to the children,” she admitted.

“Leave it. Too late now.”

So, the Wilsons spent the summer tending the neighbouring plot, battling weeds. They watched the pears, hoping the owners would appear.

But when the fruit finally fell, Margaret gathered a few in her apron.

In autumn, after tidying their own land, they cast a last glance at the neighbours. Even the fence seemed to plead, its slats sagging as if begging to be straightened.

Near the gate lay rubbleremnants of some old shed, just rotten wood, broken glass, and scraps of cloth. Yet beside the debris, late-blooming flowers struggled to grow.

__________

That winter, Peter felt a bittersweet longing for the cottage.

Come spring, at the first sign of green, the Wilsons returned.

“Dyou think the owners will come this year?” Margaret asked of the abandoned plot.

Peter sighed. “Poor garden. Such a waste of good trees”

When it was time to till the soil, Peter hired a ploughman.

All the while, his eyes strayed to the neighbouring land. He and Margaret had cleared the worst weeds to stop the spread, but the earth needed turning

“Listen, matewhat if we plough that too? Ill pay,” Peter offered.

“But Peter, its not ours,” Margaret said.

“I cant stand seeing it wild.”

“So well tend strangers land forever?” she reasoned.

“Hold onafter lunch, lets visit the Garden Association. Find out who owns it. This weeds a nuisance, and the place is rotting”

_________

At the Garden Association, a woman with glasses perched on her nose flipped through a ledger. “The address again? Cherry Lane, 45?”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “They should at least mow the grasssuch a shame, that lovely orchard going to ruin.”

“Well, its done now,” the woman said. “Owners abandoned it. Its council land.”

“So no owner?” Peter asked.

“Seems not. The last were elderlypassed away. Their nephew refused the inheritance. No time for it.” She studied them. “Fancy buying it?”

“Buy the land?”

“Yes. Itd be cheap. All paperworks in order.”

“What dyou think, Margaret? Take it, since its legal?”

“Dyou reckon well manage?”

“Well fix it up, leave it to the kidssomewhere to bring the grandchildren.”

____________

“Mountains out of molehills,” Margaret joked as they arrived at the plot.

“Feels like weve adopted this garden. Its ours now,” Peter said.

“RightIll clear the rubbish myself. Got the trailer. Well weed it, free the orchard, then replace that fence.”

__________

By summer, Peter admired the trees canopies and Margarets flowers. The old neighbours land seemed to breathe again, drinking in the rain.

“Lookour little gardens come alive,” Peter marvelled.

One weekend, the children arrivedtheir daughter Emily, son-in-law James, and the grandchildren. The older boys, Thomas and William, raced ahead, while little Sophie lingered, enchanted by the flowerbed. Peter snapped a photo.

“I like it,” James said, uncoiling the hose to water the potatoes. “We could plant currant bushes next year.”

“Thatll be your job,” Peter said. “Well leave a lawn here for the kids to play.”

“Ill buy them a paddling pool,” James promised. He eyed the fence. “Soshall we? Replace this old thing?”

“Lets,” Peter agreed. “After all, the lands ours now. Its as if it invited itself inand look how its flourished. Therell be raspberries galore this year.”