Another sodden morning. It wasn't pouring, but that French drizzle had the special talent of seeping in everywhere: up your nose, in your ears, and even into your pride.

Ten minutes by car and we were in Najac, one of those villages that seem to have been born to be on postcards. Papi Edu, true to form, opened his umbrella with the elegance of a musketeer. I, on the other hand, with no cape, sword, or raincoat, went out to conquer the village bare-assed. Najac is a row of houses hanging over a ridge, a stone labyrinth with slate roofs, crooked walls, and streets that smell of history and damp. It also smelled like cat to me, but don't tell Papi Edu.

As soon as we started walking, the rain decided to take a break. Miracle. Papi Edu uttered a "this all sounds familiar," and I perked up my right ear: aha, déjà vu. We continued along the three alleyways that form the medieval heart of the village. We passed the Porte de la Pique, one of the old gates of the wall, which looks like it came straight out of a story where the dragon is off sick with the flu. Then we went down to the church of Saint-Jean l'Évangéliste, a Gothic beauty from the 13th century with walls so thick that neither the wind nor time dares to argue with it.

From there, we went up to the royal fortress, the Forteresse Royale de Najac. We didn't go in, of course: Papi Edu said he preferred to save the euros for my food (although we all know I'm not going to eat it). We looked out from the door, and the castle, with its towers pointing to the sky and its walls overlooking the abyss, seemed to be watching over the Aveyron valley like a sentry who hasn't had a nap in centuries.

And suddenly, bam!, the déjà vu materialised: in a shop window covered in dust and cobwebs, two mannequins frozen in an impossible scene — a naked lady and a medieval knight with a Sunday face. Papi Edu stood staring as if he'd seen a ghost. He took out his mobile, rummaged through my blog and... sure enough: we'd been here last year. I, who have a nose for these things, already knew.

Back at the car, just as the first drops began to fall again, we set off for Bruniquel. An hour of curves, hills and intermittent rain, and we arrived at the motorhome area. Four or five more vehicles, all with their humans hidden inside, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. Papi Edu prepared the food, and while the steam fogged up the windows, I snuggled up in my favourite blanket.

In the afternoon, as if someone up there had pressed the "pleasant mode" button, the clouds opened and the sun crept through the trees. We went out to explore Bruniquel, a small and surprisingly charming village. Cobbled streets, golden stone houses and balconies that almost touch above the alleyways. At the top, the two fortresses dominate the landscape, one next to the other, like older sisters who refuse to retire. From there you can see the Aveyron river winding in the bottom of the valley, calm and wise.

When the sun began to set, painting the stones honey-coloured, we returned to the camper. The air smelled of wet earth and a promise of rest. Now I'm lying in my basket, tired but happy. Another day of rain, castles and déjà vus... and me, with my arse dry at last.