Last night we slept as if we'd been unplugged: no acorns, no impromptu discos, no rural ghosts. When we opened our eyes, the sun was already warming the camper's roof like a celestial microwave. Silence, golden light, and zero scares. This is the life.

Mid-morning, a man from the village appeared, with a curious look of "let's see what kind of motorhome this is". He approached, chatted a bit with Dad, and wanted to play with me by throwing me a ball. But I, who had just switched on my canine operating system, wasn't yet in "fun" mode. I looked at him respectfully, but the ball remained silent in his hand.

We set off at a civilised hour and in about twenty minutes we arrived in La Chartre-sur-le-Loir, a very pretty village with a peaceful postcard feel: well-cared-for old houses, roofs with history, and streets where the cats seem to have a resident's card. From there we saw an endless staircase - more steps than a politician has thoughts - that went up to the Joan of Arc Tower. Yes, *that* Joan of Arc: the shepherdess, warrior and French saint who in the 15th century led armies and ended up at the stake because of the English and bishops who weren't fans of empowerment. The tower, in her honour, stands over the village like a stone sentinel. Dad climbed all those steps with me, puffing like an asthmatic dragon, but the views at the top were rewarding: roofs, river and green horizon.

We went down to the village just as France entered national siesta mode. Shops closed, silent streets, humans disappeared as if someone had said "everyone to eat and sleep!". We took a quick walk and went back to the car.

Then it was the road, about 75 kilometres which for us is almost an odyssey. Around midday we stopped at a small rest area, ate in the camper and rested a little. I took the opportunity to lie in the sun like a lizard with hair.

We continued on our way and passed through Saumur, which from the window looks great: castle on top like a crown, elegant houses and the Loire next door making itself interesting. But we left it for tomorrow, as today the mission was another: Souzay-Champigny.

The village itself isn't worth writing a novel about, but what's underneath and behind it is. The whole place is full of caves made by humans centuries ago. Old quarries where they took out the white stone to build castles, cellars where proud wines matured, and troglodyte dwellings tucked into the rock as if the mountain had given birth to living rooms. We walked through tunnels, excavated alleys and facades that lean directly against the rock. Some houses are still inhabited, others are rural accommodation or modern cellars disguised as caves. It was like walking through a French Sacromonte without flamenco but with glamorous bats.

On the way out, in a small park next to the car park, Dad took the opportunity to call Dad Carlos about human-serious-business matters. Meanwhile, I trotted through the grass, did my ritual turns and sniffed three and a half trees. From the outside, it looked like he was talking about investments and I was inspecting the territory for a bone franchise.

Before we left, we specifically stopped at a supermarket to buy those things that Dad had forgotten the other day and had been silently remembering for hours.

And the prize of the day arrived: we found a wonderful place to sleep, hidden in the middle of nature, on the very bank of the Loire river. Trees, water, space to sniff and not a single sign saying "no overnight parking" or a human with a reflective vest for miles. There are corners and clearings where we could park ten times without disturbing a single mosquito.

So here we are. With the door open to the sound of the river and the smell of fresh vegetation. And if swans or beavers come to visit tomorrow, I'll bark at them with a local accent.