Spending the night at over two thousand metres sounds very brave… until you discover that the thermometer has decided to practice reverse jumping. A couple of degrees below zero, nothing serious — as long as you have heating. The problem is that ours has a mind of its own: it either fries you or ignores you. So daddy Edu spent the night playing “on and off”, while I practiced the advanced burrito-dog technique under the blanket.

The mountain slept peacefully, until at eight o'clock the committee of chaos arrived: a van, eight humans, cameras, tripods and the serious air of someone who is going to "create content". It turned out that they were going to do a photo shoot at the top of the Tourmalet. I watched them from the bed with the gaze of a retired star: “if you need a model with charisma, here I am”.

And then, the show. Around the camper, as if someone had opened an Andean portal, llamas appeared. Yes, llamas! But not the ones that burn, but the ones that ruminate. Big, small, woolly, elegant. One even gave me a courtesy spit. I responded with a friendly bark; it is not easy to maintain intercontinental diplomacy.

Daddy spoke with some of the team, and one of them fell in love with the camper. It turned out that they were doing a photo shoot for Cimalp, a French outdoor clothing brand that sounds like "mountain with style". The photographer, seeing the camper + daddy + classy dog ensemble, decided to immortalise the moment. So there was daddy, posing with the face of a sensitive explorer, while I supervised from the back. If one day you see a cover with a handsome guy, mountains and a dog with a manager attitude, it’s us.

Around eleven we started going down. What roads, my goodness… each bend seemed to be designed by a roller coaster designer. We passed by the Payolle lake, which tempted us with its still waters. We did a whole lap: beautiful, yes, but a little "too well-groomed" for my taste. I prefer places that smell of mud and freedom, not picnic perfume.

We followed the route, going up the col d’Aspin, down through Arreau and then up towards Aragnouet. Before the tunnel we stopped for lunch. Daddy attacked his plate with the hunger of an expeditionary; I did my thing: vigilance, supervision and strategic nap.

Then we crossed the Aragnouet-Bielsa tunnel: three kilometres of darkness that smell of rock, diesel and excitement. On the way out, ta-dah! Spain. After half a year away, we returned to the country of the sun and barks with a southern accent.

The descent was long, almost hypnotic. Daddy was fighting with his mobile, which didn't want to connect, and in the end they both won: the mobile worked and daddy smiled. We refueled with diesel (cheaper, of course), passed through Aínsa without stopping — we already knew it — and continued until we found a perfect spot to sleep: El Pueyo de Araguás.

A fun name, an even better landscape. There, next to a small Romanesque hermitage hidden among trees, the valley opened up beneath us. Daddy took a deep breath, I smelled the wind, and we both understood the same thing without saying anything: we were home again.

The night enveloped us calmly. After so many mountains, tunnels and unexpected llamas, the silence sounded like a melody. And in my dreams, I promised myself one thing: if tomorrow we cross borders again, may it only be chasing adventures… or the smell of a good piece of ham.