“Ma’am,” Robert called out, his voice firm but not unkind, “this is private land. Please stay on the marked trail.”
The woman blinked, looking up from her phone. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, raising her hands as she stepped back. “I didn’t realize. I’ll head back.”
Robert nodded, though the irritation in his chest didn’t completely subside. “Thank you.”
The next day, he found a young man crouching between the rows, a camera rig mounted on a gimbal. “This your land?” the man asked, grinning. “Yes,” Robert replied, his tone clipped. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d move along. This isn’t a photo backdrop—it’s a working vineyard.”
The man stood up, brushing dirt off his knees. “Wait—can I get a shot with you real quick? Like, old-school meets new-school?” He lifted the camera, but Robert turned and walked away without responding.
The following week, Robert spotted a teenager with earbuds in, ducking between the trellises. As Robert approached, the kid saw him and bolted without a word, cutting across a row and snapping a vine in the process. That was it.
Robert stomped back to the house, frustration bubbling over. These weren’t just curious wanderers or innocent explorers. They were entitled strangers treating his land like a free-for-all, like it was part of their vacation package. When he first heard that a resort was opening nearby, he’d felt hopeful. Maybe it would increase property values. Maybe someone would want to buy the vineyard someday—someone who cared for it like Marianne had.
But instead, it felt like daily disrespect and trampled rows.