Today we got up late, as if the sun had given us permission to take life easy. The morning smelled of fresh grass, stream water and toast. Daddy Edu had to do "online tasks", which apparently is a kind of human ritual that consists of staring at a screen and frowning for hours. I, meanwhile, dedicated myself to more noble things: investigating every blade of grass, following the murmur of the stream and leaving my olfactory mark in every corner. Paradise, you know.

The sun was just warm enough, the picnic tables were half in the sun, half in the shade, and I thought that that was going to be our kingdom until at least dusk. We ate in the camper, and I already took it for granted that the day would end with a championship nap. But of course, Daddy Edu has an internal clock that works the opposite of the rest of the world: when everyone packs up, he starts the engine.

After four o'clock we left for Bourdeilles, a name that sounds like butter, but which is actually a charming little town. In about fifteen minutes we were there. We parked, and we set out to explore. The town looks like something out of a storybook, with a stone bridge that crosses the Dronne river as if it had been telling stories for centuries. On one side, a castle that mixes medieval fortress and Renaissance palace; on the other, a church that keeps silent under the golden light of the afternoon. The stone facades reflect the sun and the murmur of the river makes everything seem slower, more beautiful, more... doggy.

Then we went back to the car, and another fifteen minutes later we arrived at Brantôme-en-Périgord, which they call "the Venice of Périgord". I don't know what Venice is, but if it has as many bridges and ducks as here, it must smell wonderful. We parked on the street because the car parks were closed with low bars (those that seem expressly designed to humiliate tall campers). We walked along the riverbank, with the water reflecting the troglodyte houses carved into the rock and the old mill that still seems to hear the murmur of the wheels. We even saw a fish farm in a cave —the “Pisciculture de Brantôme”, said a crooked sign—, but it seemed abandoned, as if the fish had gone on strike.

When the sun began to set, it was time to go back on the road. An hour and a half of curves, the kind that make Daddy Edu purse his lips and me change position every two minutes looking for the perfect angle so as not to roll on the ground. We wanted to get closer to the Parc Naturel Régional de Millevaches in Limousin, and although we didn't arrive, we stayed a little closer.

Almost night, we parked in a place that won't win any beauty contest: a gravel car park next to the Lac de Rouffiac, theoretically an area for motorhomes. There are no postcard views, but there is silence, a couple of fellow motorhomes and the smell of damp forest. They say the lake has beaches and that people swim. Maybe tomorrow Daddy Edu will be encouraged to take a dip. I'll watch him from the shore, with the dignity befitting an Andalusian bodega dog who prefers firm ground to cold water.

Tonight we'll sleep here, listening to the silence, dreaming of castles, rivers and paths that twist like my naps in the sun.