We woke up to the monotonous music of the rain hitting the roof, a symphony of drops that said, “take your time, guys”. So we didn't. Daddy Edu read, I slept with my legs in the air, and the world outside continued to soak. Finally, around half past eleven, we set off under a curtain of water. Almost an hour driving through fog, puddles and hidden mountains, until a brown sign caught Daddy’s attention: “Roda de Isábena”. And if a sign is brown, you know: something beautiful to see.

We went up a narrow road and parked next to the village. According to another sign, it’s one of the most beautiful in Spain. They weren't exaggerating. Roda de Isábena is perched on top of a hill, as if someone had left it there so it wouldn't get wet with the floods. It's small, made of grey stone, with cobbled streets and centuries of silence. In its time it was an important enclave on the Camino de Santiago, and its Romanesque cathedral—although now under construction—is still imposing. We couldn't go in, but on the other side there is a beautiful cloister, where there is now a restaurant.

There, in the cloister, a lady was having coffee with her little dog. Daddy Edu chatted with her, of course. The dog was eighteen years old, eighteen! And he still had all his teeth and walked with elegance, like a retired heartthrob. Daddy joked that I should learn from him. I, offended but dignified, thought that perhaps that four-legged grandpa wouldn't know how to climb mountains or bark with reggaeton rhythm like me.

We followed the route in intermittent rain, first south and then east. We stopped at the Viacamp motorhome area. There, at last, there was a truce and we took the opportunity to eat peacefully. The place is beautiful, but too urban and orderly for our taste. We prefer the wild, what smells of the countryside and adventure.

So Daddy looked on the map and found a promising place near Puente de Montañana. We went up a gravel road that seemed forgotten by humans but perfectly designed for our camper. And there we found it: a corner in the middle of nowhere, with wide views and absolute silence, except for the murmur of the wind. A place to stay, although the rain soon returned, as if it was following us wherever we go.

The road that leads there is a dead end; it ends in a ghost town called Colls. It still appears on the map, but nothing remains of it. There are many such villages in this area: abandoned when rural life became too hard, when the young went down to the valley looking for work and left the houses at the mercy of time. Now there are only ruins, trees growing where there used to be chimneys and the echo of steps that never return.

And here, in that beautiful solitude, we parked our little house on wheels. Outside the water is falling again, inside the heater is on and it smells of dry blanket and a happy dog. Some seek the luxury of hotels; we find the luxury of silence. And that night, with the rain in the background, we slept like kings... of mud and mountain.