Well, today started with a hangover… without having drunk a drop! The fault lay with the nocturnal party-going humans, not mine, as my hardest drug is the smell of cheese.

Last night we went to bed in our idyllic little spot next to the canal, convinced we'd have a concert of crickets and a postcard-perfect sleep. Ha. No sooner had we got into bed, than two cars full of noisy youths appeared. The "car park" barely has space for four cars, but they turned it into a disco, an improvised bar, and a circuit for revving engines. Loud music, even louder voices and conversations that could have been heard from Mars. They didn't leave until half past three in the morning. When we finally got silence back, I had to go out twice to pee and poop, because if I don't rest, neither does my sphincter.

In the morning the landscape was post-war: cans, bags, papers and other human relics thrown everywhere. Daddy was ready to pick it all up, not because he's thrilled to be a volunteer bin man, but because he doesn't want people to think that those of us who travel in campervans are slobs or invaders of the countryside. He does it to prevent others from paying because of four filthy night owls. But before he could roll up his sleeves, some early morning walkers came to clean up the mess. So he just thanked them inwardly and put his bin bag away for another day.

We left around midday, half asleep but operational. First stop: Leroy Merlin. Daddy got the DIY bug and bought a part to improve the campervan's waterproofing, as when it rains it looks like we're travelling inside a submarine with leaks.

Then we headed to Rennes, the capital of Brittany and a fairly large city, with more than 200,000 inhabitants. As it was Sunday, parking was a piece of cake and free on top of it, right next to the centre. We started exploring on foot, crossing the bridge over the canal d'Ille-et-Rance, which connects Saint-Malo with the Vilaine river and gives the city an air of Breton Venice but with fewer gondolas and more joggers.

Wandering through the streets we arrived at the old Portes Mordelaises, a medieval entrance with walls and towers that look like they came out of a fairytale. Then we saw the Saint-Pierre cathedral: Daddy went inside to have a look around while I waited for him at the door, supervising the flow of tourists. The interior is elegant and enormous, with a lot of gold and columns that smell of centuries of prayers.

The old town is a marvel of wooden-framed houses, many tilted as if they had leant too heavily on the bar. Then we walked through the shopping streets, which, although closed as it was Sunday, were still full of people strolling and window-shopping as if the shops were opening by suggestion.

We also passed through the Place du Parlement de Bretagne, with its stately building and the look of "important decisions and aristocratic gossip have been signed here". Further on we saw the Palais du Commerce, imposing, serious and with "come and pay your taxes but in style" architecture. In the Place de la République the atmosphere was calm, with trams, sunny benches and humans in Sunday stroll mode. We finished the route in the place des Lices, where the market halls are, closed as it was Sunday but looking like they smell of bread and cheese on weekdays.

After two hours of urban trotting we went back to the car and continued on the road. We stopped almost an hour later in a cemetery car park to eat in the campervan, because there are few places more silent than one full of quiet dead people. Then in Bouzeille we stopped in a motorhome area to get water. There was no one there, it was closed for forestry work, but the tap was still alive and helpful.

A while later we arrived at the chosen place to sleep: an oak forest next to some fishing ponds. We are completely alone, without party-goers or cars, and the place smells of wood, moss and calm. There is only one natural threat: the acorns. When they fall from the tree and hit the roof of the campervan it sounds like we're being shot at with pellet guns. Every time one falls, Daddy jumps and I bark at the sky as if the invaders were coming. But compared to the disco-goers last night, this is an auditory spa.

If the trees don't bombard us too much, tonight we'll sleep as we should. And if not, well, we've got an anecdote for tomorrow.