I had intended to return to the very pretty town centre of Sarlat on the Sunday morning to take more photographs of the beautiful buildings there, but the morning dawned grey, wet and foggy, so hoping it might improve Phoebe and I hunkered down with the heating on full blast. I hadn’t bothered to pay for electricity at 2 euros for an hour’s worth, but the gas heating keeps Thebus plenty warm enough. I cooked a large pot of Truffled Mushroom Soup, and we had warmed Coulommeirs Cheese on French Bread with grated truffle, and Chicken in a Cream Sauce with truffle – in fact anything I could think of to include truffle. They apparently keep about a week and I didn’t want to waste any of it at 800 euros a kilo.
Eventually having run out of ideas I still had half a truffle left which I put in an airtight box with four extra fresh eggs I had bought. The idea being that the perfume of the truffle infuses the eggs which are then used to make scrambled eggs. I have to say it was all very indulgent and I felt it had been well worth buying my truffle.
The weather stayed miserable the next day and I thought to visit a goose farm, as I was obviously in the heart of the goose farming district, and chose one from the specially prepared brochure given me at the Tourist Information Office (which I had eventually tracked down finding the signpost for it about 10 meters from its door)
The Goose Farm I selected proudly proclaimed it was open all the year plus there was a spot for camping cars (what we would call a motorhomes) to stay overnight.
I half expected any farm would be up a lane, but as this one seemed quite a large enterprise with camping chalets as well I hoped it might be more easily accessible than some of the others. And maybe it was. But that fact did not make it easily accessible. It just meant the others might have been worse.
The usual narrow twisty lanes, then a hairpin bend on a steep bank to the even narrower lane leading to the farm, with lots of overhanging trees to avoid. The driveway next to the farm was just about wide enough for Thebus to pass through, and I pulled up to see where ‘Camping Cars’ could stop for the night
Before I could even get out to ask a French lady – I think the farmer’s wife, as I saw a guy disappearing round the back of the house – rushed towards me gesticulating and shouting something, which when the engine was switched off and I opened the door turned out to be ‘Ferme’ which doesnt mean ‘farm’ but ‘shut’ and judging by her face was very firmly ‘ferme’. ‘ L’oie’ (goose) – I tentatively enquired ‘Non’ was the stern reply with an equally firm shake of the head and wildly crossing hands – ‘Ferme’
I guessed there would be no point asking about spending the night there and simply asked if I could turn – really meaning where would be a suitable place to turn! ‘Oui’ was the reply as she turned on her heel and disappeared round the other side of the house leaving me to cope as best I could. Apart from the fact the place was built on a forty-five degree slope in the middle of a wood it wasn’t too bad, and keeping an eye out for the overhanging trees whilst trying not to catch the scooter rack on the steep slope we gingerly managed to turn round and wend our way back through the overhanging trees, past the hairpin bend before finally re-negotiating the bendy lanes all the way back to Sarlat where we had started.
Although the Dordogne countryside round Sarlat is pretty its not easy to appreciate it driving something like Thebus, and eventually I decided to give goose farms a miss and head back to Parc Verger to collect my parcels, and I have to say when I saw my first Limousin cows grazing in a field next to the road it almost felt like coming home.