The great flock of sheep moved impatiently into the narrow main street, as frisky as the snowy-white clouds that floated by high above their heads. Only the occasional toot of a car horn placed the scene in the present. For Die, in southeastern France, sandwiched dramatically between magnificent, black pine forests and the sheer, limestone cliffs of the Vercors massif, is an all-but-forgotten town of Roman arches and fortified walls dating back to the first century A.D.

Surprisingly, even the most well-traveled French people I met seemed unaware of Die's historic charms. Yet, once a year, like Pamplona in Spain, Die does enjoy a measure of fame. Here, however, it's not bulls and the foolhardy who run with them who put the town on the map . . . it's sheep.

On a late June afternoon, the flock floods the narrow cobblestone lane that is Die's main thoroughfare. The next day, the shepherds will lead their charges, followed by jubilant villagers and visitors, up Le Glandasse, a steep-sided, table-top of a mountain, where the sheep will spend the summer, devouring the nourishing alpine grass.

To celebrate the arrival of the sheep, the Die town fathers organize La Fête de la Transhumance, seven days of films, lectures, gallery exhibits and concerts, ranging from rock and jazz to madrigals and troubadours, that attracts visitors from all over France, the rest of Europe and, last year, three Americans, including myself.

The term transhumance comes from the Spanish word transhumar, meaning literally "to change the earth". It refers to the Mediterranean tradition of leading grazing animals to mountain pastures in summer, a practice still followed in Italy, Greece, Turkey, Corsica and southern France. Die's summer flock belongs to breeders in St-Martin-de-Crau, near the Camargue. When the southern pastures dry up, and the heat becomes stifling, the 2,500 sheep are herded into lorries for the 24-hour journey to Die. In the 1960s, the journey took two days by train. Before that, stretching back to medieval times, shepherds would herd their flocks for nine or ten days, following narrow tracks first carved out by the Romans.

Die, at the confluence of the Meyrosse and Drôme rivers, was once a busy administrative centre of the Roman Empire (Its name comes from the Latin, Dea Augusta Vocontiorum, or Good Goddess of the Coconces.). When I arrived, the day before the sheep, the town was already bustling, yet the ambience was more church social than boisterous Mardi Gras, marked by the eating of much ice cream, swimming in the Drôme, and walking along the trails that lead from the town to the forested hillsides.

My guide, François Ribard, was a compact man in rumpled jeans, who wore a permanently bemused expression. When I asked what he did when not working as a guide, he replied: "I write and I hike." After that, I expected a taciturn companion, but François turned out to be affable, intelligent and, lucky for me, very patient.

That first afternoon, he took me to a concert held within the remains of the 12th-century Cistercian abbey of Valcroissant. We sat on wooden benches in what had once been the abbey's refectory, facing a rose-shaped window without glass, through which we could see trees and a darkening, stormy sky. A couple sang works by Purcell, Berlioz and Vaughan Williams, but the highlight, aside from the rain and wind which added a certain theatricality to the event, was a performance of Mussorgsky's Pictures From An Exhibition. Thunderous clapping elicited four encores. When the rain grew heavy, someone from the audience stepped up to the piano and held an umbrella over the young pianist's hands.

After dinner, we rushed to the cathedral to catch the end of a concert of pulsating Russian gypsy, Basque and Mediterranean songs. The crowd was young, hip, and boisterous. The town historically welcomed Calvinist ideas and a sign still proclaims Die "une ville protestante." Today, that translates into a healthy tolerance of all peoples, especially the babacools, southern French slang for the town's hippies. I left at 11:30 PM so as to be up early enough to claim a good spot to see the sheep parade. I learned later that the dancing in the town square went on until the early hours.

Early next day, with the smell of strong coffee filtering through the air, people began to gather at every window and doorway along the main street. Excited toddlers perched on their parents' shoulders, while older children scrambled for prime positions. First we heard the bells, an accordion and a tambourine, followed by a clarinet, the beat of a drum and the twang of guitars. Then there came the sound of hooves beating against the cobbled stones. The musicians came into view, followed by the breeders, handsome men in high, black boots, long capes, and broad-brimmed, black hats. Finally, a huge cheer went up as the frantic sheep raced by, nose-to-tail, completely filling the street.

They were led by a single shepherd, crook in hand, and his daughter who was perched on a small, white donkey. In the forefront of the parade were the flocats, castrated rams about four years old with little furry pompoms sculpted onto their backs. Others wore large bells with wooden collars called redons. They were followed by fierce-looking black sheepdogs, and goats, whose job is to nourish any orphaned lambs. The crowd loved the spectacle, especially when the sheep filed through the narrow Porte St Marcel, a Roman triumphal arch, estimated to be 1,800 years old.

The arrival of the sheep was celebrated by a street market. Locals loaded up with cheese, breads, berries and vegetables, while visitors bought woven baskets, shepherd hats and bells, white lace blouses and, best of all, huge blocks of Provencal soap, perfumed with lavender, hyacinth, rosemary and thyme.

We ate barbecued lamb (nobody seemed to think it odd to celebrate the sheep's arrival by feasting on their brethren), baked white beans and salad, and drank a lot of beer. Later that afternoon, in the cathedral square, a dozen red-smocked men from Pau in the Pyrenees sang a cappella. Drinking pastis and enjoying the infectious good humour of the crowd, I looked forward to the prospect of the days ahead, hiking the crayola-green meadows and narrow mountain paths.

At about 8:30 AM, we joined an exuberant crowd of 150 hikers to follow the sheep as they climbed a steep path over the Chabrinel Pass to their mountain pastures. Each time we came to a clearing, the sheep broke into a canter, but were quickly brought back by the shepherds and their dogs. At about 2 PM, we reached a grassy meadow above the tree line and settled down to eat. We watched the sheep, now followed by only a few hearty hikers, continue their climb as we picnicked on fruit, cheese, bread, ham, sausage, rice salad and fruit cake.

François explained that after a few days, the shepherds would put "aprons" (in effect, male chastity belts) on the rams. This would ensure that most of the ewes would conceive and give birth at more or less the same time, after coming down from the mountain with the first snows of October. Their summer job done, the younger rams would be sold on to other breeders; the less fortunate would be bound for butchers.

For the rest of the week, we hiked the mountain paths. We never saw the sheep again, but we marveled at the sight of the green hillsides mottled with outcroppings of grey limestone. We trooped through villages whose narrow medieval alleys were covered with bursts of geraniums. Wherever we went, life seemed to move at a gentler pace. In towns and villages, every face beckoned us with a smile, while on the trails, we revelled in our remoteness. Nietzsche was right: "The best thoughts come while walking."

My only fear is that one day Die will be "discovered", its rambling mountain trails will become overhiked, and the quiet country roads will become clogged with traffic. For now, there is nothing to mar the beauty of the landscape; nothing more intrusive than a few farmers’ cottages. And should the hikes get too much, you can always drop out for an afternoon, sit outside a café in a village square, and watch a 19^th-century world, unsullied and at peace.