The mist stretched like a lazy blanket when I opened my eyes, but soon the sun gave it a lick of the kind that fixes everything. The place where we'd slept turned out to be a hidden treasure: picture-postcard views, absolute silence and air so clean that even my whiskers smelled of freedom. Dad and I enjoyed the good weather, each in our own way: he with his coffee looking at the horizon, I with my truffle glued to the ground, tracking invisible mysteries.

At eleven o'clock we set off. We went back about twenty-five kilometres to Benabarre. Dad grumbled something about planning and maps, but I think deep down he likes to improvise. If we had continued along the N-230, we would have ended up in the Pyrenees again or perhaps in France, and that wasn't on the cards today. Today Dad wanted to see something very special.

After an hour of curves and landscapes that made you want to stick your tongue out at the wind, we arrived at the beginning of an unpaved track. Ten kilometres of stones, earth and potholes wanting to take centre stage. Dad smiled and said: "Thank goodness we have a 4x4". I, who am in co-pilot mode, nodded with my gaze. What we weren't expecting was to find, when we got to the top, a huge motorhome, the kind that isn't much of an off-roader. "How much guts people have!" Dad said. I thought: either a lot of guts or very little sense.

Finestres, the abandoned village, received us in silence, as if breathing softly. But we kept walking towards what we had really come to see: the Chinese wall of Finestres. And no, I haven't gone crazy. There is a Chinese wall in Spain. Well, more or less. They are sharp, vertical rock formations, aligned like the fangs of a sleeping dragon. In reality it is the work of nature, not of humans: erosion, time and wind have sculpted it for millions of years. But to the eye, it looks like a wall made by giants.

The path went up and down, with mud, stones and the occasional slippery trap. I was happy, with my paws splattered with mud and my heart beating to the rhythm of the wind. Halfway there, a French family determined to break the peace of the centuries started shouting. If there were a wall of silence, I would have sent them there to meditate.

Finally we arrived at the hermitage of San Vicente, nestled in the middle of the wall like a forgotten jewel. Small, simple, but with a quiet energy, the kind that makes you sit down and breathe deeply. Dad and I took photos, selfies and had a rest. I lay down on a stone and looked at the blue sky. Sometimes, the best moments don't need words.

On the way back, we stopped at the abandoned village. Half-ruined houses, trees growing between the walls, nature reclaiming what was once theirs. There's something beautiful and sad about these places, as if time had left the door ajar.

Back at the camper, we ate and rested for a while before going back down the infernal track. Ten more kilometres of bumps, but this time with the satisfaction of having seen something truly unique. Already on the asphalt, we continued south.

When the sun began to hide behind the mountains, we explored the surroundings of the Santa Ana dam. Between tunnels, canals and aqueducts, it looked like a labyrinth of water and stone. Very cool, although the air already smelled of cold. Dad decided to go a little further to get ahead, and in the end we found a picnic area in Castelló de Farfanya.

It's not the most beautiful place in the world, but it fulfils its mission: a quiet place to park, have dinner and dream. While Dad prepares dinner, I snuggle up in my blanket. Outside, the silence is only broken by the whisper of the wind. And I think: it doesn't matter where we sleep, as long as we keep travelling together.