The hay bales were neatly rolled in the fields by the back roads of Brittany ; hydrangeas adorned the stone cottages, their hues ranging way beyond the narrow pinks and green of home: blood red, deep blue, purple, plump and beautiful.

Here and there, we caught a glimpse of the Emerald Coast waters glittering among the many, white-sand coves, alive but not over-run with the summer visitors.

One of the many delightful coves in this part of Brittany

As we gently pedalled through this idyllic corner of France, it occurred to me time and again: how could any other country possibly match the cycling we have experienced here?

This isn't the one-eyed rambling of a hopeless Francophile, although I do think this is a wonderful place. I know, and have been to other countries that are just as appealing in their own ways - including my English home, I should add.

No, it is more connected to the Tour de France riders that were scything their way through the South of France at the same time, showing off that region's epic landscapes every evening as we tuned in after our own day's exertions.

There was, on the face of it, very little to link the highly tuned athletes on the final stages of their journey to the Champs Élysées to our two-bike peloton on the quiet rural roads at the other end of the country.

They were on racing machines as sophisticated as Formula One engines; my wife and I were on sensible touring bikes, mine with a babyseat attached to the back, and a 21-month old within. They were treating their diet with a scientific seriousness; I was happy as long as there was a chilled house white along with our three-course set menu at the end of the day.



The writer and family on the road

And they attacked the steepest hills at a speed that would have my wife gently rebuking me over dinner ("my heart was in my mouth") if I allowed myself to unclench the brake long enough to hit the same velocity downhill.

Our connection was more of a spiritual one, a traditional bond many years in the making. The Tour is a talking point and institution here, and the French simply respect cyclists, from Lycra-clad champions in yellow jerseys to families on a leisurely daytrip, in a way I simply don't see elsewhere.

My colleague, Anthony Peregrine, recently wrote how we need a driving lesson from the French, as they begin their annual migration to the seaside. "Perhaps French road life really is now more civil than British," he argued. "I have found driving over here far more agreeable than in Britain - and, as you surge across the Channel over coming days and weeks, I’m sure you will, too. "

I am not convinced. Given the choice, I would still prefer to put my life in the hands of fellow motorists on the M40 than I would travelling down the main artery roads from Calais. There were a few too many sharp overtaking manoeuvres on our way down to persuade me that things have changed that much.

On a bike, however, it's a different matter. There are constant red triangle warning signs about two-wheeled road users. It's also French law for motorists to give cyclists a berth of at least one and a half metres out in the countryside. And you know what? They really do.



A slightly faster moving group of cyclists

Sometimes that was irrelevant. We travelled some gloriously empty roads, where you could practically spread a blanket in the middle of the tarmac and have a picnic with little more to trouble you than a quizzical look from a local cow.

But we also plied several busier thoroughfares, and they did not prove even the slightest concern. The big tractors gave us a courteous allowance. Boy racers coming from the opposite direction eased down a gear; and was it my imagination, or did that hair dryer moped sound slightly less shrill as it went by?

Several times we had a queue of drivers banked up behind us, without a hint of impatience or the sound of a horn. The one time I did feel the hot breath of a nearby vehicle, I looked up to see a caravan, with several bikes stashed to its back to my surprise - and the telltale 'B' of a Belgian number plate.

So, yes, I would take the back roads of Brittany on bike before I would the rural byways of, say, Lancashire. Just ask Bradley Wiggins, who was knocked flying in that very county shortly after he took his time trial gold medal in London 2012.

Perhaps he, Chris Froome, Mark Cavendish, and co, as well as the magnificent reception of le grand départ in Yorkshire, will help to raise cyclists to the same standing in Britain as across the Channel. But stories like that, and the scars, bone breaks and worse of several friends on the roads of Britain, suggest there is still a way to go.



One of the grand chateaux overlooking Dinard

That said, all the road etiquette in the world wouldn't help if the surrounding region had little to offer. As I jotted notes for this, the lights were twinkling in Dinard harbour, that night's resting point, while the retreating tide gently washed against the catamarans in the bay, and the memory of the evening's Muscadet lingered on the palate. Can you guess where I stand on that?

Essentials

The writer travelled with Headwater on their Emerald Coast cycling tour. Eight-night breaks, including accommodation, bikes, luggage transfers and half board, start from £1089 per person.

Telegraph Travel expert guides

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