OK, maybe it wasn’t witting. Not much that sheep do is witting, as I understand it. Not the smartest mammals around, and not even the cleverest herd animal, apparently. They need to be led.

But they played a key role in getting us over the trackless plateau atop a ridge, west of where we are staying, in southern France, that had brought us to a hiking standstill more than once.

If not for the sheep, we would not have made it across and down the other side of the hill in the picturesque walk to the neighboring village of Caux.

But back to the direction-finding sheep …

We had figured out a way over the ridge, via a fairly long detour, after complaining two months ago that Google Maps was leading us wrong.

But it had rained all day yesterday, and to go the long-way-round we had discovered … would take us through some muddy fields, which (if they did not swallow us whole) would leave about 10 pounds of wet Languedoc earth stuck to each jogging shoe.

I was intent on finding a way across the top of the plateau. I knew where I was. I had a good idea of what was directly across from us … and part of that route, especially at the start, was a mostly wide-open mesa with grass and some low brush.

So, we set off. With the idea that we could retrace our steps, if we had to.

At some point there we had been talking about leaving bread crumbs, a la Hansel and Gretel.

But it got better.

Wool.

About 75 yards into our crossing, the grassy bits disappeared and the shrubs closed up. It was no longer anything resembling a path. We were simply looking for an open bit of ground on the other side of the least imposing shrubs we could find.

And while considering “this potential dead end versus that other one” … I saw on the outer branch of a shrub … a torn bit of the dirty white wool of a sheep that must have passed by.

As noted earlier, a couple of herds of sheep and/or goats are grazing in the area, and that plateau we were on would be perfect for them. No commercial endeavors going on, lots of grass and small bushes for them to eat.

It seemed to me clear that the shepherd and his trusty dogs would have driven the sheep through the narrow passages — or at the least the lame-brain sheep would have followed their fellows.

It was an “aha” moment. “If the sheep came close enough to leave a batch of wool here … this is where they want.

And … the sheep are led by a man and his dogs, and they are not going to walk away into nothingness.

Over the next 10 minutes we came to a half-dozen other places where a tuft of wool was proof of a recent passing through of the herds.

A few minutes later, we came to another open meadow, and on the other side was the narrow road that would take us off the plateau and down into the verdant valley.

This may not work far into the future because I would think the sheep will be shorn sometime soon and may not be leaving wool behind on prickly bushes. I imagine their wool is not considered fine, etc., but it has to have some value for fabrics — or at least the sheep will want it gone because it’s going to get warm here. Or so we hear. Eventually.

Meantime, where the sheep have boldly gone before us … we are glad to follow along. And we didn’t even need dogs to drive us forward.