We slept in the woods, or rather, we tried to. I don't know if it was due to some suspicious buzzing, an insomniac mouse, or just Daddy Edu's mental gymnastics, but we woke up looking like we were in "energy-saving mode." So we left late, although he calls it "at a reasonable hour."

Our destination for the day sounded solemn: Oradour-sur-Glane. If you don't know it, it's a town sadly famous for being destroyed by the Nazis in 1944. More than six hundred people died, and the town was left as it was that day, as a silent witness to the barbarity. Today it's a place of remembrance, a place where the ruins tell what books can barely say.

We parked first in the large car park next to the historic site, but when he saw the sign "4 euros for up to 5 hours," Daddy put on the face of a rebellious economist. "For that price, Chuly, I could almost buy you another plush toy," he muttered. And that's how we turned around and parked for free five minutes away on foot. Saving money is our thing.

The Memorial Centre was closed for renovations (it seems it will take a couple more years), but even from the outside, you feel its weight, with those sober lines that say more than they show. Then Daddy went to the "martyr village," while I stayed outside, tied to a metal fence with the dignity of a canine sentinel... and the frustration of a furry excluded tourist.

Because they didn't let me in. No dogs, neither big nor small, neither smart nor well-behaved. Me, who knows how to walk in silence and even look with respect, had to stay watching from outside as Daddy disappeared behind the entrance arch. I'm not going to lie: I was angry. I barked a bit (okay, more than a bit), as if saying "Hey, I also have a right to remember!" But nothing. Two hundred meters away, they already knew there was an indignant dog at the door.

Daddy Edu, inside, walked among the ruins of the village, where the streets are open but the houses are not. He told me later that you can still see the tram that crossed the village, and the church where time stood still. He said that the place is not exactly "frozen in 1944" as the brochures promise, but it does leave a stone in your chest.

Me, meanwhile, watched the entrance and counted cars. Every time someone came out, I looked at them with a "Are you my daddy?" face. Until finally, I saw him return, with a full camera and a slightly heavier soul.

Let's eat, because that cures almost everything. We found a picnic area and there we deployed our gourmet routine: kibble for me, banquet for him. Then, synchronized nap. We needed to recharge our batteries after such a busy night.

Later, with renewed energy and no clear direction, Daddy went into "let's see" mode. The general idea was to get closer to the Périgord-Limousin Regional Natural Park, but without stress. On the way, we explored several possible places to sleep: one in the forest, near Cognac-la-Forêt, very quiet but with less charm than an empty box; another next to a dolmen, a prehistoric stone as dignified as the ones we saw in Ireland, but here free and without tourists. The problem: it was right next to the road. Sleeping to the rhythm of the trucks didn't sound tempting.

And so we arrived at Saint-Auvent, where we found a hidden gem: a beautiful motorhome area, under the trees, with three level spaces and not a single neighbour. Total peace.

While I watched that no cat crossed our invisible border, Daddy Edu took advantage of the last light of the day to do some DIY. Nothing serious: a small mushroom had decided to move into the wooden structure of the cell, and Daddy, playing the hero with a screwdriver, declared it public enemy number one.

The night enveloped us between the smell of the humid forest and the satisfaction of having closed a serious day with a peaceful ending. He with his repair, me with my imaginary bone. Each one cures in their own way.