He stomped back to the house, muttering under his breath. These weren’t harmless wanderers. They weren’t explorers. They were entitled strangers treating his land like it was part of their vacation package. When he first heard the resort was going up nearby, he’d felt hopeful.
Maybe it would raise property values. Maybe someone would want to buy the vineyard someday when he was gone—someone who loved it the way Marianne had. He hadn’t expected it to bring daily disrespect and trampled rows.
The next day, after sweeping more footprints off the porch and fixing another broken post, Robert walked to the resort. The front desk gleamed in soft beige tones. The young woman behind the counter gave him a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir. We do tell guests to remain on marked trails,” she said with a practiced tilt of her head. “But we can’t control what they do once they’re out on their own.” “They’re cutting through my vineyard,” Robert said, voice clipped. “They’re damaging the crop.”
“We can mention it in tomorrow’s morning brief,” she offered. “That’s the best we can do.” It wasn’t enough. The next week was worse. They didn’t just walk through—some brought drinks, leaving cans behind. One couple set up a blanket like it was a picnic park.
Another group filmed a vlog, posing between the rows while one man gave a faux wine-tasting monologue. Robert watched from the porch, mouth tightening with each passing second. He confronted a group of three one afternoon—two sunburned men and a woman in athletic gear.
“You’re on private property,” he said, stepping off the path with careful footing. The taller man blinked. “This isn’t yours, is it?” “It is. This entire stretch. You’re damaging the vines.” “We’re not doing anything,” the woman said, brushing her leggings.
“You’re trespassing,” Robert replied, his voice harder now. “Chill, man,” the other guy said. “It’s just a vineyard.” They walked off laughing. Robert stood alone among the vines, the silence pressing in like a dull ache.
That night, he stayed up late flipping through Marianne’s old notes, trying to figure out what was wrong with the vines—why the yield had dropped. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat, the soil, or his own inexperience.
“I should’ve asked more questions,” he muttered in the dark. “I should’ve learned from her when I had the chance.” The next morning, he walked the rows and stopped cold. A dozen fresh footprints, one snapped row, and a vine that looked like someone had tripped over it.