The night was so quiet it was scary. Not an owl, not a cricket, not a car in a hundred galaxies around. I think the silence was barking inside our heads, because we slept badly without knowing why. Even so, we got up early… to then have breakfast and lie down again like two sloths with an emotional hangover. Basically, when we finally set off it was already after midday. Very much in our style.

Saint-Léonard-de-Noblat was a five-minute drive away, that is, basically just getting out and parking. There's a giant, free car park next to the centre, ideal for thrifty humans and dogs who need to stretch their paws. The village reminded us of a miniature version of Rennes: little streets with old houses, historic roofs and that "I'm well-preserved, thank you for looking at me" air.

We visited the collegiate church of Saint Léonard de Noblat. Dad went in for a moment and came out saying it was pretty, but what caught his attention most was a kind of little chapel attached to the building, with its baptismal font included. I listened to him thinking: "as long as they don't invent the doggy font... everything's fine".

The village was nice, but it didn't steal our hearts like others. So back to the car and off to Lac de Vassivière, almost an hour winding along roads full of curves that looked like they were drawn by a hyperactive worm.

The lake... oh my god, what a place! It's huge, with islands, beaches and forests everywhere. We parked, ate quickly and went out to explore the forest. In twenty minutes we reached a beach that looked like it was taken from a doggy dream: sand, infinite space and the water so low that there was more shore than lake. It was sunny, cool wind, but we found a sheltered corner. Dad lay in the sun like a retired lizard, and I devoted myself to my scientific labours: testing the aerodynamics of acorns, the hardness of sticks and the philosophicalness of stones.

When the sun hid behind the trees, the temperature plummeted and we started the way back. Another twenty minutes among the smells of moss, crunchy branches and dry leaves that shouted "autumn".

It was time to look for somewhere to sleep and Dad had spotted a beautiful picnic area with giant oaks. Beautiful yes, but more inclined than my right ear when I hear "biscuit". Dad spent more than ten minutes moving the car forwards, backwards, board, chocks, a mechanical tango until he left it levelled. We went into the camper, settled in... and the war began.

BOOM! PAM! TAC! The suicidal acorns launching themselves from the treetops like vegetable snipers directly to the roof. Each impact seemed like a meteorite in our house on wheels. I jumped in fright, Dad said swear words in several languages. After five minutes we already knew that not even a cactus was sleeping there.

We packed everything up again and moved a kilometre further on, to another car park without killer trees. Flat, silent and without ammunition falling from the sky. Here yes, here we parked our ears and closed the doggy day in peace.

If something falls on us tomorrow, let it be a blanket, not a kamikaze acorn.