The morning began as if the sky had been angry with the whole valley: torrential rain, wind to dishevel seagulls and the sound of drops hitting the roof as if they were throwing chickpeas at us from a light aircraft. The other two motorhomes in the area also showed no signs of life: no doors, no humans, no dogs, no brave ones. So we, with all the dignity of camper survival experts, stayed under the blanket until the sky stopped spitting on us.

When it finally cleared just enough not to float, we went out after midday. First mission of the day: Intermarché in Châtillon-sur-Indre. Dad went in with his mental list of "four things", which always turns into ten, while I stayed in the car to watch that no one stole the dashboard. Next door was a Bricomarché, which activates the ancestral instincts of DIY dad. He went in like someone going for medieval wood, but came out without screws, without saws… and with a new companion for me: a stuffed dog that squeaks when I bite it. Luckily, because my old friend the hippo was already asking for retirement due to disability.

Then we headed south, almost an hour's drive to the Domaine de Picadon, where the famous Étang du Couvent is located. This area is part of the Brenne Natural Park, a territory full of ponds, wetlands and birds with names that sound like French with a cough. Here the plan is not so much walking dogs as observing birds. And by observing I mean: hiding behind camouflage curtains and waiting for an exotic duck to sneeze.

We ate in the camper and then went for a walk around the pond. Me with the joy of a free dog; Dad Edu with a face of "this is pretty, but a glamorous puddle doesn't excite me". I understand: the Brenne is for fans of binoculars, not so much for fans of mountains or cheeses.

We went through an observatory, those wooden ones with little windows, and the wildest thing we saw were two swans kilometres away and a mosquito wanting to be the star. Meanwhile, in the car park, the birdwatching pros were taking out their arsenals: tripods taller than me on tiptoe, telescopes that looked like bazookas and cameras that could photograph the DNA of a heron from Lisbon. Some were dressed in camouflage as if they were expecting the duck to offer them the keys to the pond.

We could have stayed there to sleep — there's plenty of space and no one bothers the feather-crazy people — but the place had the charm of a wet shoe. Furthermore, the data coverage was so bad that sending a whatsapp would have required drums and smoke signals.

So, around seven o'clock, we started up and drove another half hour to a place like the ones that make us do backflips of inner happiness: near Chitray, next to the river Creuse, hidden among trees, with no neighbours, no streetlights, no rules hanging from signs. Just calm water, silence and our home on wheels. Here we do, here we stay to sleep. Among roots, reflections and air that smells of moss and freedom.

And with my new stuffed-dog snoring with me, the day ended better than it started… although without a single famous bird to certify it.