Aroooooo, new trans-maritime dog chapter!

I thought sleeping on a boat was for pirates or one-eyed cats, but it turns out I snore on the high seas too. When I opened one eye in the morning we were still sailing. I don't know how long I had been dreaming of flying sausages, but the boat kept moving as if it wanted to tickle me from the inside.

Daddy Edu took me out on deck for my liquid and solid business. Up there the air smelled of salt, old metal and international dog pee. In the dog zone we met a couple: she Colombian, he Dutch, and they were travelling with two border collies that seemed to be trained by the CIA, because they didn't stop watching everything as if they were going to write a report. Very nice people, all of them. They sniffed me with respect, I showed them my professional butt, and we talked about how hard it is to be beautiful and furry on the high seas. They told me (well, I understood it by the smell) that they had lived in Ireland for several years and were now moving to Holland. I thought: "wow, at this rate I'm going to speak more languages than daddy".

Later, daddy left me in the cabin because he needed coffee like I need chorizo. He had already gobbled down the sandwiches last night while I was on pillow guard duty. He went to the ship's restaurant for breakfast, and I stayed in bed... that is, in MY bed, the one I'm not allowed to step on, according to the rules. A rule I ignored with elegance.

The problem with the cabin is that the beds are for lying down, but there is nowhere to sit in a human way. So daddy left me there (wrapped in a blanket, in the posture of a dethroned king) and went with his computer to the lounge, which is half bar half restaurant half nursery for bored humans.

Later, as he is a dog of habits but a human of a voracious stomach, he went back to the restaurant to eat. He ordered a very good hamburger, at Irish hours, that is, when other humans are still digesting breakfast. I didn't smell even a crumb, because life is very unfair.

At four o'clock sharp —French time, which is one hour later than Ireland but we dogs don't have watches— we arrived at the port of Cherbourg. The entrance was spectacular: the ship slipped between giant walls and marine defences as if entering a floating castle. Cherbourg has one of the largest artificial ports in the world, with very long sea walls that seem to be made to stop tsunamis, invaders or cats with suspicious intentions.

But they didn't let us go down yet. Another half hour waiting inside the boat and the car's fuel light was already flashing saying "help, give me a drink or I'll push". When we finally got off the boat, we arrived at a petrol station in the same port and filled up the tank. Cheaper than in Ireland, which daddy celebrated as if he had been given ham.

Plan for afterwards? None. After 18 hours of floating, daddy's head was in "omelette mode". That is, zero foresight. We decided not to do much and look for a place to sleep. We looked first at the coast, near Utah Beach, but it was windy... again. And we're fed up with the wind. My ears have been horizontal so many times that I think they're going to ask me for a seagull passport.

So we turned around and ended up in Montebourg, where there is a luxury dog caravan area. Flat, quiet, with eight caravans installed and an atmosphere of "the fan doesn't blow here". We chose a space, parked and breathed peace.

Today there were no castles, no memorials, no miraculous quarries. Just wind dodged, sandwiches extinguished, polyglot collies, life-saving petrol and a stable mattress. And that, friends, is sometimes the perfect trip.