Ancient France (and Austin Powers)

I'm lying in a wrought-iron four poster bed in one of the oldest buildings in a 12th century medieval village listening to the strains of jazz musicians playing Austin Powers' theme song.


I don't know if there's any greater contrast.


We arrived in Sarlat-la-Canéda, or simply Sarlat, around four p.m. after leaving our beautiful French manor house in the Loire Valley. With our trusty navigation system to direct us, (we've named her Margaret), we drove up out of the valley through rolling hills surrounded by soft green forests and the occasional field of corn or wheat.
(Now the musicians have switched to playing "Tequila," complete with French-accented shouts of "Tequila" in-between trumpet blasts.)

an ancient cottage in Sarlat
Sarlat is a medieval village left almost completely untouched by modern life. The cobblestone streets are too narrow for cars and so the pathways are filled with people and dogs instead, wandering over worn limestone bricks, open-mouthed and staring at the ancient buildings.


The city was completely surrounded by walls for many centuries as border town between British-occupied land and French territory during the 100 Year War. The entire region of Dordogne is incredibly old and tucked away in many of the limestone-walled hills are caves filled with thousand years old paintings from the the region's original inhabitants. Brochures describe the area as the "Cradle of Mankind."


I'm exhausted from the day of driving, although to be honest, driving in France is more peaceful than driving I-5 through Seattle. The French are polite, courteous motorists who actually just use the passing lane for passing and rarely, if ever, go over the speed limit or even go the speed limit at all. Most of the time, they drive leisurely as if they're just enjoying a Sunday out. The roads are perfectly maintained and there is no trash littering the sides of roads, no billboards, nothing but blue skies filled with puffy clouds and ancient villages popping into view every so often.


Each little town we pass, I exclaim over the buildings, the gardens, the walls.


"It's so cute!" I squeal. I imagine it's getting old because my mom has begun to remark that every town is that cute. I'm beginning to wonder if there's a law in France that you must own a perfectly maintained home with a colorful, orderly garden because it seems like every home we pass is engulfed by wisteria vines, rose trees, perfect topiary and planter boxes overflowing with every known flower. I can't get enough of it and am trying to drink it all in, absorb the color, the smells, and the absolute delight that is the central regions of France.


History of Sarlat-le-Canéda on the town's Web site.