Today, Papa Edu woke up with that "I don't plan to lift a finger today" look, and I thought "Great, today's for the sofa, naps, and maybe some flying breakfast crumbs." We stayed in our camper van until midday, me doing the dog-mop thing on the bed and Papa looking at things on his phone like a digital owl. It was still chilly outside, the kind that makes you stick your snout out and pull it back in because the air bites.

But then… beach time! We went back to the same one as yesterday, the one where the wind doesn't bring salt but the smell of the forest and half-forbidden adventures. But this time we didn't park on the road, no no no. Today, Papa thought he was a Paris-Dakar driver and took the car down the forest path we walked yesterday. I was in the back thinking, "If a deer with parking tickets appears, I don't know him."

The forest swallowed us, the trees parted as if they had already spotted us yesterday, and when we came out, an empty beach again! In the sun, it was lovely and warm, the kind that smells like doggy toast, and in the shade, it was so nice that I almost felt like writing poetry with my tail.

And the best part: today, Papa brought my ball. My ball! That magic sphere that turns the world into a festival. I played, ran, barked at the wind, buried the ball three times, and rescued it like a hero firefighter. Papa threw it to me, and I acted like a ninja cheetah, though shorter and with less glamour.

We stayed until the sun hid behind the trees like a kid who doesn't want to shower. Then back to the car, again on the forest path, among branches, shadows, and me watching out for any wild boars asking for autographs. Then came a little road with so many curves that we looked like a washing machine on spin cycle. About twenty kilometres, half an hour, and I didn't throw up: national hero.

And suddenly… we arrived at Lac du Chammet. Make a note of the name because it's a big deal. A lake as big as a cat's ego and as peaceful as a human after eating three croissants. Surrounded by forest, with a private beach just for me, and not a soul around. There's a picnic area here that looks abandoned by shy elves, and the silence sounds like velvet.

This place is one of the best in France, I say, having sniffed half the country. We parked among the trees, mostly pines, and there's only one oak... but this one is decent and doesn't throw killer acorns like the ones yesterday. Here you breathe peace, adventure, and a bit of delicious mud. The moon appears, the lake stretches, and I've already decided that tonight I'll dream that I'm the official guardian of the secret beach.

Papa says we're sleeping here. I say we're living here.