I like taking long walks. Multi-day walks. I like the quiet, the rhythm of my feet and the metronome-like swing of my walking stick as I go. I like the adventure - and the surprises - of a long walk, and the fact that the longer I walk, the more clearly I think. I like watching the changing color of the sky and the way food tastes outdoors. I am endlessly fascinated by rocks and leaves and growing things, and the architecture of barns and houses and the shapes of old stone walls.

Thus I was quick to assent when my sister Ruth Anne offered me an air ticket and invited me to take a long walk in France. She had walked in France before, a couple of weeks at a time, along the pilgrim's trail - the Chemin de St. Jacques de Compostelle - on three occasions. Chemin de St. Jacques translates to the way - or the path - to where Saint James is said to be buried.

The Chemin de St. Jacques is a well marked trail that has been followed by pilgrims seeking salvation for more than a thousand years, and by hikers like us. It has been estimated that more than a million people have hiked it. The trail starts near Lyon, France, and ends in Santiago, Spain, where the remains of St. James are said to be buried.

Ruth Anne and I walked for about 10 days, a section of the trail that starts in Moissac, two hours by train from the city of Bordeaux. It was a relatively inexpensive vacation: Once I arrived in Moissac I bought a "carnet" or booklet at the local cathedral that showed I was walking the trail; this allowed me to stay in "gites" (inexpensive dormitories for walkers) and was stamped each night to show my progress. Some gites are owned by municipalities, others are private.

I paid $12 to $18 per night for a bed in a gite. My mother was a little shocked when she heard that we slept in bunk rooms with persons of the opposite sex, but believe me, no one in France cares about such things. The snoring can be ferocious, of course, in a room with up to a dozen hikers, but I had brought good quality earplugs - a must. The bigger towns, of course, had B&Bs, and even hotels, though we eschewed them.

Ruth Anne and I liked staying in the smaller towns, many of which only had one choice for lodging: the local gite. Sometimes we spent the night on a farm far from any town. We always tried to arrange to get our evening meal and breakfast at the gite, usually paying an extra $15 to $20 for the meals - served family style - and which included pitchers of local wine with dinner. If meals were not available, we bought food in a town along the way, and cooked in the kitchen of the gite.

Like any former Boy Scout, I like to be prepared for any eventuality. Thus I had a raincoat (that I only wore once), long underwear (that I never needed), a swimsuit, extra changes of clothes and so forth - everything but a snakebite kit. All that weighed about 30 pounds, which was more than I wanted to carry all day, every day - at age 61. But I knew in advance that there are transport services that would carry our luggage from town to town for a fee of about $10, and I decided that it would be money well spent.

Even so, I carried 2 liters of water, lunch, a camera, my writer's notebook and other paraphernalia, so I ended up walking with about 15 pounds, which felt fine. Like most hikers, I used a walking stick, a telescoping metal one, which I grew to love. It even had a little compass on top, which I used when taking shortcuts.

Luck plays a big part in any trip, and I tend to have fabulously good luck. So, for example, we arrived in Moissac on the annual Festival of Fruits and Vegetables - perfect for a gardening guy like me. There were tents along the Gironde River where farmers and vendors showed off their produce and offered samples. And that first night there were some of the best fireworks I've even seen, including fireworks set off from rafts in the river that sent up geysers of water.

The ability to read and speak French is important. We had a guidebook to the trail that tells - in French - what each town and village along the route has to offer, and the distances between towns. It lists restaurants, places to stay (with phone numbers), and important information such as whether the bakery is closed on Mondays (many are). We always called ahead and made reservations for our lodgings, and in most places only French was understood. We never met another American, though we did meet hikers from all over Europe. French was the lingua franca.

Once, while staying on a horse farm, we got to go for a 10-mile ride in a caleche (a 4-person racing cart) pulled by two huge, highly-trained horses that, oddly enough, only understood Polish. We had gotten to our destination early that day, and I had been asking lots of questions as the farmer hitched up his horses for a late afternoon training run. He and his wife took us through woods and fields at break-neck speed - usually at a canter, but at times at a full gallop. It was all great fun, but predicated on speaking French.

Traveling is full of surprise, which my sister and I enjoy. So, for example, one day at just after 2 p.m. we arrived in a small town, hungry. Very hungry. We found the one restaurant in town, which had just finished up lunch service. They agreed to serve us, but didn't ask us what we wanted: They just brought us course after course, eating the same wonderful food that the cook and the waiters were eating at the table next to us. It was delicious. All that was lacking? A good cup of coffee. And then - voila, one was served to us before we even asked. They presented us with a very reasonable bill - another nice surprise.

Sometimes I felt connected to the pilgrims who had walked the trail long before me. This was particularly true where the Chemin was worn down 5 feet or more below ground level, or where the stone steps of churches along the way were rounded down and worn. I wondered if those walkers had felt the same joy I experienced listening to the songbirds or stopping to look at the intense blue of a wildflower.

At the entry to many villages or outside churches along the way there were often tall metal crosses mounted on stone bases. Walkers would pause, deposit a pebble at the base, and take another. I began to do the same. I'd find a nice smooth stone and carry it for a couple of days, then leave it beneath a cross. I'd pick up another stone from the pile, and put that in my pocket. And I know that eventually those pebbles I carried will make it all the way to Santiago de Compostelle - even if I never do.

Henry Homeyer is the author of several books, articles and columns on gardening and other topics. He lives in Cornish Flat.