In the morning, a silent but important celebration was in order: a thousand nights in the camper for me, one thousand and one for Daddy Edu. A thousand! That's a lot of sleeping, eh? Although of course, not all of them have been the same: some with rain on the roof, others with the wind shaking the camper, a few with snow up to our ears and a few with dreams of ham.

The place where we had spent night number one thousand was one of those that makes you sigh: peaceful, beautiful, surrounded by trees and with the river whispering things I didn't understand, but they sounded good. The kind of place that even a dog feels like they never want to leave. But Daddy says we're nomads, and nomads don't put down roots. So, at two in the afternoon (yes, two, there's no rush when you've slept so well), we started the engine and set off for Rochechouart.

In fifteen minutes we were parked, I think in a place for motorhomes, although no one asked us for a membership card. From there you could already see the castle, proud and elegant, with those towers that look like stone buns. It turns out that it's built on an old meteorite crater. Come on, the stones here have a galactic past.

We strolled through the village — peaceful, clean, with the smell of bread — and went up to the castle. The museum was closed, but the courtyard was worth the walk. Then, going down, our stomachs rumbled in unison.

And then... we saw it! A pizza vending machine. Yes, a machine. It seemed like pure magic to me. Daddy Edu, with the face of a mad scientist and overdue hunger, put in the card and chose a "Big Karnivore". Three minutes later, a hot box came out of the slot as if it were a modern miracle. We opened it on a bench in the car park. It didn't smell like Naples, but hey... for a vending machine pizza, it was alright. I gave my word: a little piece fell and I certified it with my palate.

With a full belly and high spirits, we set off for Lac de Saint-Mathieu. Sun, breeze, clear water and a beautiful little beach. I could already see myself splashing happily, but Daddy Edu put in a finger and said "chilly". I translate: not going in, not even as a joke. So we went halfway around the lake, enjoying the fresh air and the smell of wet forest.

Afterwards, back in the car, heading for Saint-Jean-de-Côle. What a beautiful place... and so small that if you sneeze, you're out of the village. It has a Romanesque church, a medieval bridge, a mill and that silence that only happy villages know how to have. Daddy took a lot of photos and I posed, because if there's a camera, there's a star.

With the sun already setting, we went to Brantôme-en-Périgord, but it received us with barriers two metres high and anti-dog... I mean, anti-motorhome signs. Not a single free space. So we kept searching until we found, twenty minutes later, our corner of peace: a picnic area next to a stream, with an old wash house, a stone bridge and zero humans. Only the murmur of the water, the whispering trees and the two of us (well, three if I count the cold pizza left in the box).

We stayed there. Another night in the camper. One thousand and one for me. One thousand and two for Daddy Edu. And the counter keeps barking.