After a fitful night at an Ibis Hotel on Friday September 12 (think Days Inn, without all the luxury), we ventured on to the Dordogne region to visit with Mr. Cro Magnon. We have it on good authority that our ancestors once lived here, albeit tens of thousands of years ago, and we decided to visit the old cave for the sake of nostalgia.
We traveled south on the B roads, which are punctuated by old villages and innumerable round-abouts (these are quite brilliant insofar as they eliminate traffic lights, although at the expense of some (more) gray hairs as you become accustomed to asserting yourself with a camion).
This was well-received by "Madge," our GPS system, which immediately directed us to a cow patch by way of the numerous medieval cart paths and highways once enjoyed by the local peasantry. After some clarification, negotiation and compromise, including a tire-spinning extrication from a mud-patch, Madge reconsidered, and we were able to make good progress towards Sarlat. 
This is the cloud that followed us all day! It was sunny everywhere else, except directly above us.
Nearing our destination, we began searching for our night's accommodation. Fearing another night at an Ibis (shudder), we became determined to find a "suitable" place. Spotting a sign for a Chambres d'hôtes, we decided to check it out.
We turned off the highway, onto a narrow road and, after some minutes, onto a gravel path. This led to a coach house and then to a wrought-iron gate, behind which was situated the stunningly rustic 300-year-old farmhouse, courtyard (avec BMW convertible), manicured gardens, and sweeping pastures that screamed "way too expensive" in capital letters. However, if you don't ask, you don't know, so...
Not seeing an office, we approached what appeared to be a main door and, with no response to our knock, entered a sitting room. With still no answer to our calls, we made our way towards a dining room and, upon hearing voices, entered a kitchen where we were casually greeted by our future hosts, English ex-pats Mike and Lindy, who were preparing their supper. Inquiring about a room, we were told they were full, and were instead offered a cottage at the same price (much less than an Ibis room). We maintained our poker-faces until after we were shown our quarters, situated in the charming, renovated outbuilding with a swimming pool, at which point there was much fist-pumping and high-fiving.
The next morning, after a run to assuage our guilt about our French diet, I bumped into Mike, who explained that the farm was approximately 300 years old. The lower level of what I assumed to be a gate house had, in fact, been a large bread oven used to feed the farm workers who had occupied about twelve surrounding cottages. The upper floor of the building was a pigeonry (SP????), supplying fresh meat. Mike and Lindy had lived here for the past seven years, running a B&B for six months of the year. Envy prevented me from inquiring where they spent the remaining six months...
We then made our way to the breakfast table, where we met two other guests, also British ex-pats, enjoying a vacation in the Dordogne along with, as we would learn, much of the population of England.
Lindy offered the usual breakfast items (toast, cereal, etc.) and then, somewhat hesitantly, asked if we would like freshly-picked mushrooms on toast. I wondered if we would spend the rest of the day in a psychedelic haze (or hospital), but politely accepted. The mushrooms were simply delicious, with a mild, nutty taste and firm texture that perfectly completed a lovely and filling breakfast (the colour of the sky remained normal, man).
Lindy asked if we were going to stay another night. We replied that it was an offer we couldn't refuse. We stayed for 3 nights.
(For future reference, look for Les Sarrazinies, near St. Felix in the Dordogne. It's worth the drive.)
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