In the end, I tell everyone I’m a contra-pilgrim. “Je suis un contra-pèlerin,” I say, each time someone asks me why I’m walking the wrong way along the pilgrimage trail to Santiago de Compostela. It saves time. Otherwise, I’d spend the whole day standing about, explaining over and over again that, no, I’ve not been to Spain already, and no, I’ve no intention of going, and, actually, I’m just out for a lovely walk in a beautiful part of France – and that, as far as I’m concerned, is reason enough for being here.

Well, that and the fact that walking every day means I can eat more magret de canard in the evening.

The pilgrims – the ones heading in the “proper” direction – looked baffled. They’re a pretty serious bunch, on the whole – hardly surprising, really, given that they’ve just embarked on a 1,000-mile hike through southern France and northern Spain in a quest to renew their faith.

Over the past 20 years, there has been such a vigorous revival of this pilgrimage that on any day in spring and summer, you’ll meet 20 or 30 of them on the waymarked route, decked out in the latest hiking gear, evenly spaced (about half a mile between each group), heads down as, one by one, they slay their inner demons. Dilettantes like me are so unexpected, they seem genuinely shocked by my appearance.

Yep:contra-pèlerin sums it up nicely.

Gascony is the perfect place to practise my new calling. I’ve signed up for a five-day hiking itinerary here, starting in Castéra-Verduzan and finishing in Lectoure, with two days of circular walks en route. It’s organised by Inntravel, which specialises in self-propelled travel, and is called the Sunflowers and Abbeys trip.

“Foie Gras, Armagnac and Not Too Many Big Hills” would be a better description. Lost in a 60-mile stretch of France between the River Garonne and the foothills of the Pyrenees, this is one of the gentlest, most profoundly rural parts of France you could hope to find – a rolling landscape of wheat fields, vineyards and rich, reddish-brown earth. The food and wine coaxed from it is deservedly famous, and the big, solid farmhouses are testament to the wealth it brings. The only strain a five-day walk here is going to bring is to my waistline.

What’s more, the people at Inntravel know exactly how to cater to my needs. They’ve surgically removed any element from the experience that might be called arduous or unpleasant. So, when I arrive at Agen railway station – 10 deliciously idle hours after leaving Waterloo – I’m not faced with a long slog out of town, chewing on everyone’s exhaust fumes. Instead, a nice man with my name on a notice board is waiting to whisk me by taxi to my first hotel. Then, each day that I move on to a new base, I pack my bag, leave it at reception, and it’s driven on to my next destination. All I need carry is my camera, a couple of sandwiches and the day’s supply of suncream.

I don’t even have to sweat over the route. Inntravel has done that for me. Not all of it is on the pilgrims’ trail, but where it isn’t, it still follows the waymarked paths of France’s superb network of sentiers de grande randonnée (or GRs). And, just in case I don’t have the sense to follow the little coloured signs that are pinned to every significant tree and gatepost, it has supplied me with maps as beautiful as anything provided by our own Ordnance Survey – the 1:25,000 range of the Institut Géographique National are set to a scale so generous (1cm covers just 250 metres) that I can make out virtually every footstep. Not only that, I’ve been equipped with extensive notes describing the route. “After 100 metres, the road bears half left, but your path goes straight on” is the kind of detail they give you. “It becomes a grassy track with glorious views to the right. Almost anywhere along this section of the path, you could find a good picnic spot.” And I do. Thanks very much for the tip, guys.

Truth is, if I’d done this kind of thing when I was a teenager, I would have hated it. That was the last time I spent more than a day walking anywhere – and, back then, the hard parts of the trip were all that mattered. There wasn’t much else of significance going on in my life, so walking as far as possible with a 60lb pack on my back, along narrow, difficult paths, made life suddenly more interesting. But that was 23 years ago, and my life now is quite interesting enough, thank you.

Having every last scrap of uncertainty removed from the journey is exactly what I need. All I have to do is supply a little bit of muscle and an awful lot of appetite. Gastronomically speaking, the highlight of the trip comes in the town of Condom, on my third night in France.

Characteristically, Inntravel has found the best hotel in town – Les Trois Lys – to be a base for its clients. It’s set in a compact but elegant 18th-century mansion, and the chef, Karine Faggion, and owner, Jean-Marc Miguet, are a formidable double act. She cranks out subtle variations on Gascon standards in the kitchen, while he provides an intricate and beautifully judged tour of the region’s wines and liqueurs.

Needless to say, duck liver is a big feature of the meal. I eat five pieces of it, flavoured with everything from saffron to dried apricots, accompanied by a glass of local white. “I’ve got the perfect thing to go with this,” Miguet says when I ask him to suggest a wine, and he brings out a glass of L’Eté Gascon, from the Château de Pellehaut. It’s a mix of chardonnay and the Gascon grape gros manseng, and it is ever so slightly sweet – the perfect foil for the earth-and-butter flavour of the foie gras. It’s one of those meals you want never to end.

It’s a good job the walk that follows this particular pig-out is the longest of the trip. It starts with a short hop in a taxi to a village called La Romieu, recently accorded World Heritage status by Unesco, and the site of a magnificent assemblage of 14th-century collegiate church and cloister. It has original frescoes in the sacristy, and even an air of Name of the Rose mystery. During my tour, the guide points to a long crack, following the shape of an arch, in the wall beneath the wall painting. “At some point in the 14th century, this was covered up,” he says. “And the distance between here and the next room is more than three metres. I think there is something behind it.”

Unfortunately, with 12 miles to cover before supper, there’s not too much time to ponder what that something might be.

From La Romieu, the path is broad and – as ever – easy to follow. I hoof through thick oak woodland and past undulating fields where the wheat rolls like Atlantic breakers.

Every 10 minutes brings another pilgrim of St James –“ Bonjour. Yes, yes, I know I’m going the wrong way” – and, in between, a host of rich rural smells. Yes – middens are among them, but there’s also the sweetness of blossom, the tang of nettles and the sudden earthiness of wet bark.

Bees hum and all kinds of creatures rustle in the hedgerows beside me: pheasants, rabbits and, once, a fox. He shoots off up ahead in panic, looks back and realises from my easy, ambling pace that I pose not the slightest danger. So he slows down and – for a while – walks on in front of me. All day, he’s the only creature I meet who’s going my way.

For the last three miles, I can see my goal – the town of Lectoure, which sits on the crest of the most significant hill in the area, and shoots a cathedral tower into the sky for extra effect. It looks promising, and my pace picks up as soon as I see it.

I’m not disappointed. If you could boil down just about every daydream you’ve ever had about French provincial life, it would end up looking like this: mighty medieval walls, a long, narrow high street lined with shutters and shops, and a simple, pious cathedral. As I walk into the main square, a brass band suddenly starts to play – fast, zany and, it seems, quintessentially French. It appears that the mayor of Lectoure – in league with local estate agents – has hatched a plot to seduce every passing English tourist.

As it turns out, there’s a proper reason for their joie de vivre. There has been a wedding, and rose petals are still scattered by the west door of the cathedral. The reception at the town hall is now over, and the twentysomething couple are climbing into the first car in a small motorcade made up entirely of antique Citroën 2CVs. Once they’ve been waved off, the crowd of wellwishers begins to disperse, and I can’t help watching them as I sip an aperitif in a pavement cafe.

They chatter about the event, and, even though absolutely everyone has an opinion on the dress (too long, too showy, and did I hear “too white” from someone?), you can tell how touched they all were by what they’ve just seen.

Here, now, bathed by the late-afternoon Gascon sunshine, life is good, their smiles seem to be saying. And I know exactly how they feel.

Travel brief

Sean Newsom travelled as a guest of Inntravel (01653 617906, www.inntravel.co.uk), which offers a six-night independent walking holiday in Gascony from £572pp, including return rail travel from London (via Lille) to Agen, taxi and luggage transfers, B&B accommodation, two dinners, three picnics and detailed walking maps and notes. In some towns, hotel upgrades are offered, for example to Les Trois Lys, in Condom. Other companies offering walking holidays in France include Waymark (0870 950 9800, www.waymarkholidays.com) and Headwater (0870 066 2650, www.headwater.com).

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