Tall story - finely spun!

I deleted everything! The whole Normandy is gone. Nothing is left, not a dot or comma, completely disappeared into the technical Nirvana right down to the last letter.

Hours of struggling with words and formulations, flowery descriptions of small villages with stone and half-timbered houses, colorful depictions of beautiful sunsets - nothing is left. Joyful encounters with locals who raved for hours about their homeland, a dramatic search for the dog who loses his way in the high wheat field, intense descriptions of hikes along the cliff coast, and Bibas gourmandeuse memories of palm trees, figs, and apple orchards - I deleted everything!

In the evening, we sit together and put the finishing touches on my stories from Normandy. We struggle for almost every letter to create a result that is satisfying for everyone. Formulations are changed, descriptions are polished, and above all, Zappa must incorporate the final dramaturgy into the search for the chicken gods. When everything seems to be good, I save the five pages of anecdotes and I am ready to post new stories to the world tomorrow.

But now Zappa wants to shock the public with the gruesome tale of our hike at low tide to a stone island near the Normandy coast:

We set off and after several kilometers over rough terrain, we reach the small island off the coast. Unfortunately, Zappa hasn't been able to catch any crabs yet, he still needs to learn some tricks from the local seagulls. The sun is blazing from the Normandy sky, but the cold wind provides constant cooling. Nevertheless, we arrive on the island hungry and thirsty. My small water bottle and the butter cookies are quickly devoured.

We enthusiastically search for shells, stones, and crabs on the rocks. While we pile up mountains of huge scallops, the tide rolls in unnoticed by us.

We're not talking about measly 80cm tides like those in the Baltic Sea or the Mediterranean, we're talking about an 8m tidal range of the Atlantic on the English Channel. Before we know it, the way to the robbers' cave is blocked by cold, relentless waves.

The tide slaps against the rocks and we climb to the top with the seagulls so that we don't get wet feet. The island is getting smaller and smaller and I'm starting to panic that the stone will be completely flooded in the end.

At first, Zappa finds it amusing, but as the sun starts to sink into the sea, we both get freezing in the stiff wind. The last cookie is soon shared, the last sip of water from the bottle is drunk, while slowly the night falls and thousands of stars and a thin crescent moon shine above us. We sit huddled together in the shelter of a rock, hunger and thirst gnawing at our spirits, and I can only just stop Zappa from nicking the eggs from the seagulls' nests and sucking them dry. Even the seaweed we scrape off the rocks doesn't make us full, just very, very thirsty.

It's not until well after midnight that the waters have receded enough for us to return to our warm robbers' cave with dry feet and snuggle into our thick, warm blankets.

Insight of the day: If you go to a lonely, windy island, you should bring a warm blanket.

Yeees, we can sense the fear and incomprehension in your eyes!

Of course, this is just wild travel Latin and the finest tall story. A funny Baron Munchausen story with crooked legs and a long nose that has sprung from our shared imagination shortly before sunset. We would never-ever do anything so dumb!

But one thing is actually true: the 8m difference in water levels between ebb and flood!

Both of us are captured by this story with heart and soul, and meanwhile, the temperatures have dropped considerably in the writing location. We are wrapped in our thick blankets and to calm my nerves, which have been stirred up by the story, I bend down for one last gummy bear. In doing so, the warming layer triggers a key combination unknown to me so far, and the entire text of the last wonderful days of travel, everything is suddenly gone forever! Only a lonely O remains on the page as a mockery!

In my despair over this catastrophe, I press the back button in the menu, thus finally saving the loss of all the literary effusions of the past week. Everything-everything is gone!

Yeees, I know: don't just click away, think first, then act, and maybe start a new document for each chapter! Hindsight is always wiser.

I can't take it anymore. I'm going to bed. Zappa tries to save the last lines, but in vain. I did a thorough job.

I will not rewrite the adventures from Normandy, it can only turn out bad. We will only show photos from this wonderful French region here.

Zappa has promised to rewrite 'The One Who Dances With Seals' and 'Danger of Death through Lucky Charms' for you.

However, I don't want to do it anymore. I am now looking into the future, to Brittany, and I'm looking forward to crêpes, galettes, and Breizh-Cola!