I needn't have worried. It was all far more lighthearted than the literature suggested, and the roads were so empty that getting split up wasn't a problem.
This was just the sort of riding Tiggers like: gentle curves, great straights, beautiful scenery. The kind of ride that's so much better in company, whether you're swinging round an S-bend with the front of the group visible uphill from you and the tail-enders below or giving the rider next to you a big grin and thumbs-up while stopped at traffic lights. Belgian Eric was chatting away non-stop to his wife; those of us without pillion passengers had to make do with our CD or MP3 players.
There were a few showers, the worst of which occurred while we were off the bikes looking at the view from a very exposed hilltop. I had cunningly brought an umbrella in my top box, which made me very popular despite mutterings that real bikers didn't carry such things.
We made several sightseeing stops in the course of the day, plus lunch. The latter was a three-hour affair including kir and wine, after which we clambered back in the saddle.
Into town on the scoots again for the evening meal. "We must mix," insisted the French group, so I did - only to have the other seats fill up, leaving me as the only Anglaise at their table. They made me very welcome, were patient with my rubbish French and translated their asides into English for me. When things were untranslatable, I got a shrug and a cry of "French paradox!"