We stop the car, amused, watching the geese gobble and squabble and chat to her. She explains that these geese are having "time off": early Spring is not the season for gavage - or force-feeding - the birds are still too young. “Mais attendez. Wait. In less than three months the goose fattening process for pâtė de foie gras begins”.

It may be chopped liver to you, but for a farmer, this is serious business. From 15 to 30 weeks, the birds are herded into special gavage sheds, where a tube of rich food is stuffed down their beaks and massaged down their gizzards. Just before slaughter, goose livers have swollen to such an extent that the birds drag their stomachs on the ground, waddling grotesquely. “N'est-ce pas cruel?” I ask. A typically Gallic shrug. “It is our livelihood. For hundreds of years. And you know, it is a short but good life for a goose.”

Here in the Dordogne, and especially the Périgord Noir, you can't escape foie gras. This gastronomic pocket of South-West France is famous for the wealth of its cuisine. In Sarlat la Canéda, the 12th century capital of Black Périgord, there are more than 250 restaurants and as many specialist pâté shops. You can have pậté every which way - smooth, coarse, wrapped in bacon, blended with walnuts, truffles, spiced fruit or brandy. There's duck and goose pâté, sold in tins and air-tight jars, beautifully displayed in gift boxes that also contain the famous wines of the region, the smooth, honeyed white moelleux, crisp and fruity Bergerac, or the robust red vin de Cahors, once favoured by the Russian Tsars.

The Dordogne - part of what the French call Aquitaine - is a land of fairy-tale châteaux, gray-blue slate roofs, tiny medieval hamlets carved out of towering cliffs

and the fast-flowing river that gives the region its name. Richard the Lionheart lived and died here. The Hundred Years War between England and France during the Middle Ages meant that many cities enclosed themselves with fortifications and became bastides or walled towns, to keep out the marauders. But the Brits have now had the last laugh, colonizing the Dordogne's villages - some with a population of less than 200 - and taking advantage of low-cost flights to the UK: 15 Euros one-way from Bergerac to London. They come for the mild climate and cheap housing, but above all, they're attracted to the lifestyle, entranced by the sleepy market towns, the rocky grandeur of the place, and the food.

Ah, the food! Sweet-smelling melons and miniature strawberries, white asparagus, pink garlic, chestnuts, sparkling cider. Armagnac brandy. (This is after all the land of D'Artagnan from the Three Musketeers.) On our first day in Sarlat, we sample more than 20 different pâtés at the market and come back to the hotel laden with goodies.

Day two and we dine at Le Quatre Saisons, arguably Sarlat's finest restaurant. The building dates back to the 13th century and inside the dining tables are framed by tall stone arches and a cathedral ceiling. You speak in a whisper and feel like you're in church. Food is served in dignified silence, as waiters solemnly usher in course after course of aromatic truffle soup, pâté de foie à l'orange (naturellement), magret de canard - marinated sides of duck, confit de canard - pot-roast duck stuffed with rosemary and sorrel, a token nod at vegetables with a buttery serve of green beans and the pièce de resistance - une croustillante de noix: a crisply puffed walnut biscuit served atop walnut ice cream.

Le Quatre Saisons offers set menus from 26 Euros, but Madame la Patronne explains that during the high truffle season from October to February, customers invariably choose the 60 Euro Truffle Degustation. This includes saffron truffle soup, pâté de foie aux truffes, canard fourré aux truffes (duck stuffed with truffles) and truffle ice cream.

Truffles, those fragrant mushrooms that grow beneath oak trees, are called Black Diamonds here. 1 kg is worth A$1,500. Farmers and truffle hunters used to use pigs to

snuffle them out, but that's now considered old-fashioned. These days specially-bred flies are used to detect a truffle growing deep underground. Apparently, they whizz round in a drunken frenzy whenever a truffle is spotted. Clear demarcation lines are drawn - woe betide the bounty hunter who crosses over his truffle hunting patch! But for those with patience and sound knowledge of the local terroir, the rewards are worth it.

A small truffle marinated in oil can be bought for about 20 Euro. Thinly sliced, just a fingernail sliver of truffle is enough to flavor an omelette or a soup. If you're on a budget, 8 Euros will buy you a bottle of aromatic truffle oil, which will almost double as the real thing.

Day three, after our banquet, and we feel as gavé as a goose. Sensible eating is in order, and the trip to Rocamadour's a timely reminder of our over-indulgence. One hour away from Sarlat by car, this bastide is perched 500 metres above the river, almost carved out of the limestone caves that dominate the countryside. Today, as in medieval times, it's a place of pilgrimage. The faint-hearted can take the lift, but mindful of our gastronomic transgressions, we climb the 465 steps to the Shrine of the Black Madonna. Here, the local Bishop, St Amadour, who gave his name to the village, is said to have cured Richard the Lionheart of a wound he suffered during the Crusades.

In summer Rocamadour is packed with tourists and souvenir shops. Off-season, you can sense the mysticism of the place. In a little chapel the Black Madonna, a rough-hewn 12 inch high walnut carving of mother and child, sits quietly above the altar. Birds nest in the eves, darting in and out, tantalized by rays of sunlight sweeping in through stained glass windows.

Time to retrace our steps and find a light lunch. But we see nothing but duck or goose, pậté and more pậté, and the occasional nod to something more exotic - pâté de sanglier: wild boar. There's something almost churlish about admitting you've had too much of a good thing in this gourmets' Paradise, but maybe our penance is to go hungry today! Finally, we come across a bistro that offers salad and a panoramic view over the valley. We order une Périgourdine: a bowl of crisp lettuce and truffle-infused walnuts, in the middle of which nestles a perfect, round miniature Rocamadour, the crumbly white goat's cheese of the region.

We ask our waitress if the locals ever tire of eating pâté, if goose or duck lose their appeal. She looks at us in disbelief.

“Mais non! Pas du tout! We are very proud of our produce.”

And what about high cholesterol?

“Ça non! It is the local wine. A glass or two of our good red every day combats the problem. We have no bad cholesterol in the Périgord. C'est le paradoxe français!”

• Air France flies from Paris to Bordeaux, capital of Aquitaine, and Sarlat is 3 hours' drive away. Bergerac Airport is a low-cost option if flying from London.
• We stayed at: La Villa des Consuls, 3 Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Sarlat. Tel: 55 331 9005.
• We ate at: Le Quatre Saisons, 2 Côte de Toulouse, Sarlat. Tel: 55 329 4859.