The next day, after sweeping more footprints off the porch and fixing another broken post, Robert marched to the resort. The front desk looked sleek and modern, bathed in soft beige tones. The young woman behind the counter offered a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her voice robotic. “We do tell guests to remain on marked trails, but we can’t control what they do once they’re out on their own.”
“They’re cutting through my vineyard,” Robert said, his voice sharper than he intended. “They’re damaging the crops.”
“We can mention it in tomorrow’s morning brief,” she offered, looking at him with a practiced sympathy. “That’s the best we can do.”
Robert didn’t reply. It wasn’t enough.
The following week only got worse. The trespassers didn’t just walk through—some brought drinks and left cans behind. A couple set up a blanket like it was a picnic park. Another group filmed a vlog, posing between the vines while one man gave a mock wine-tasting monologue.
Robert stood on the porch, his mouth tightening with each passing second. His patience was wearing thin. One afternoon, he confronted a group of three—two sunburned men and a woman in athletic gear.
“You’re on private property,” Robert said, stepping off the path, careful to maintain his balance.
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 replied, brushing dirt from her leggings.
“You’re trespassing,” Robert said, his voice harder now.
“Chill, man,” one of the guys replied. “It’s just a vineyard.” They walked off laughing, and Robert stood there, alone among the vines, the silence pressing in like a dull ache.