Yo, who doesn't come with an umbrella as standard, already knew the day would smell of dampness from the first lick of the morning. The rain woke us up early, pounding on the camper roof as if someone were clapping flamenco. Papi Edu huffed, stretched, and said it was better to make the most of the early hour to get some miles in. So, before ten o'clock, we were on the road, leaving behind the Tarn gorge with its soaked mountains and the echo of thunder.

We drove for almost an hour, the windscreen wipers setting the rhythm of the adventure. We stopped at a rest area with a viewpoint, but the landscape was less appealing than a croquette without ham. One photo and we carried on. The real show came a little later, when Papi decided it was time to free the car from its layer of cow perfume. Yes, that unique mix of mud and poo that we had collected so carefully. At the car wash, the jet of water roared like a dragon. I watched from inside, with a mad scientist look on my face, while Papi handled the lance like Rambo. In a jiffy, the car looked like a car again and not a piece of the countryside.

Then it was time for a logistical stop: Lidl in La Primaube to fill the pantry and a Carrefour petrol station to fill the tank. All in order. Well, except that I didn't see a single piece of sausage lying on the floor, which was a bit disappointing.

Almost at four o'clock, we stopped at a picnic area. There we ate quietly inside the camper, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof and the silence of the world outside. Then Papi went into explorer mode: looking for a place to sleep. We didn't find any picture-postcard paradise, but we were already satisfied that the ground didn't look like a ski slope.

In the end, we landed in the car park of a small park, on the outskirts of a village called La Fouillade (which, forgive me, sounds like what it sounds like). There was another camper, but it seemed uninhabited, as if its humans had fled in search of WiFi.

Before we settled in, we took a walk to the village. Nothing to do with the magical places we usually discover: sad streets, tired streetlights and not a soul that smelled of freshly baked bread. When it started to rain again, we went back to the camper at a brisk pace. I shook off the drops, did three laps on the blanket and let myself fall with a sigh.

There, under the constant drumming of the rain, I will sleep thinking that even the greyest days have their charm. Because while everything gets wet outside, inside our little house on wheels there is always warmth, a little tenderness… and my papi.