We slept like logs, completely ignoring the constant purr of the neighbouring lorry that tried so hard to act as a lullaby. Since we were in no hurry, as the concept of "early start" isn't in my humans' dictionary, we set off in the car at around half past ten in the morning. Ahead of us lay about 45 kilometres to Shipunovo, a place that stands out on the map as one of the great agricultural and grain-processing hubs of the Altai region, crowned by a massive cereal factory that dominates the skyline. Upon arrival, we went straight to nose around the military cemetery and a beautiful wooden church right next to it, consecrated to Saint Demetrius of Rostov. There we bumped into a charming local lady who, with overflowing enthusiasm, began to explain the entire history of the temple to Uncle Joan and Daddy Edu in perfect, lightning-fast Russian. I watched on, amused, while my humans put on faces of intense concentration, nodding solemnly and throwing in the occasional "da, da" to hide the fact that they hadn't the faintest clue what she was talking about. After that masterclass without translation, we took a stroll through the town centre park to admire the imposing Soviet architecture and took the obligatory photo of the monstrous grain factory before continuing our route.

On the way, to the surprise of everyone and especially me, as I was already picturing myself baring my teeth at another customs check or dodging tedious police officers, the journey went by with almost boring tranquillity. We didn't run into a single one of those roadside checks they are so fond of in these latitudes where they ask for everything including your birth certificate, nor was there any sign of those annoying digital gremlins that jam signals and make the car's GPS lose its way. With the humans' technology working without a hitch and the road completely clear, we were able to press on in a straight line without any shocks.

We made great time, devouring kilometres, stopping only in a sort of residential area called Rosinka with the sole objective of plundering a public fountain to refill our camper's water reserves. The real drama of the day began when we approached Barnaul. The traffic became thick and sludge-like, turning into a stop-start torture as we tried to cross the Stary Most, the old and famous bridge over the imposing Ob River. We were stuck in a monumental traffic jam that tested my infinite patience as a retired terrier, but the reward upon reaching the other side was worth it. A green labyrinth of wooded areas opened up before us, dotted with small inlets of the river where a multitude of locals were relaxing, fishing rod in hand. Although we had a recommended place to sleep saved on our phone app, Daddy Edu and Uncle Joan decided to ignore the technology and, to my amazement, proved they have a pretty well-trained nose themselves. They found a magnificent hideout by themselves under a dense grove of trees that provides us with spectacular shade. As evening fell, the fishermen packed up their gear and left us completely alone in our little riverside paradise. We have earned a championship rest after having driven well over two hundred kilometres today. Now it's my turn to guard this forest while they savour the peace of the river.