It’s not often that top level international sport happens in Wiltshire. The sort of sport which gets national coverage, which even gets put on TV and everything. Thus, when the UK’s answer to the Tour de France- the creatively named Tour of Britain- went from Bath to London on a route that took it right through the centre of this modest sporting county, it seemed like something that I had to see.

Now, I should be honest here. I know absolutely nothing about cycling. I know who the famous riders are, and have just about come to grips with what a ‘peloton’ is, but in reality it is not one of the sports in which I consider myself to have any kind of expertise. Fortunately for me, a lifelong friend of mine and his family are all avid cyclists, and so it was with them at my side that I took up position under the early autumn sun outside The Wiltshire Yeoman pub in the village of Chirton.

We were by no means alone and a small but growing crowd- I’m sure there were enough to be classed as a ‘crowd’- had also seen fit to be outside a pub at five to 11 in the morning rather than actually turning up at work. Many had cycled there themselves and were fully decked out in their lycras, some even wearing replica kits (shirts? strips? The lingo escapes me on this one) of their favourite teams. I had no idea people really ‘supported’ teams in the cycling world; I was learning already.

There was some debate happening among the various groups about which side of the road offered the best sightlines. Gareth, my friend’s dad, adopted a trial position on the far side next to a photographer, but the head of this insatiably sociable household had ideas beyond simple reconnaissance. Glancing across to his neighbour, he crossed his arms, gave an upward nod and made his move: ‘We’ve been to a couple of these in France,’ he dropped casually, a knowing look appearing on his face. A classic manoeuvre; the bait was laid. The photographer lowered his camera and looked back at him: ‘Oh yeah?’ he replied, his interest piqued. Bait taken.

We had been there a good half an hour by this stage and people began getting their phones out to check the live commentary and make estimates regarding the athletes’ arrival times. Team cars had begun passing us by and the occasional outriding motorbike. Still the road hadn’t been closed though, bizarrely leaving motorists free to cruise headlong towards the incoming racers.

Who was in the lead, some people queried. Others were more excited by the police motorbikes, while others still found interest in their pint glasses. Our group was getting into tactics, who would be well suited to the climb into Devizes and then the sprint out. It wasn’t a section that would suit Mark Cavendish, they decided, before coming to the conclusion that he ‘wasn’t very good at riding a bike’; a damning indictment of a champion cyclist if ever I heard one, but one that was backed up by his developing habit of falling off and crashing. They said it was because he was a good sprinter but didn’t have the downhill background of many others, so was liable to lose control when things got tricky. I accepted this wisdom, knowing no better. Across the road, meanwhile, Gareth and his new photographer friend were now deep in conversation.

By about half past 11 things started to happen. More and more motorbikes began to appear from the west, forming a ‘rolling roadblock’ to prevent any inflowing cars from pulling out of their junctions. But from the east a problem was bumbling into view. A lone bike rider, like a lycra-clad Pied Piper, was leading the motliest of convoys down the road towards the race: bouncing along behind him were two enormous tractors with even larger mud-covered attachments, then a van, some cars. Many cars, in fact, stretching back quite some way, all stuck behind the farm traffic with the racers now mere seconds away.

Now I have never actually been to the Tour de France, but I don’t imagine muck spreaders often cause a flurry of panic on the Champs-Elysees. The two tractors were immediately surrounded by police motorbikes and guided down the junction to the safety of the village. A further four motorbikes formed a wall across the road and frantically waved every other vehicle into the pub car park while a few spectators shouted for them to move. The drivers, meanwhile, clearly not expecting to encounter all this on their commute, all looked utterly bemused. One stopped in the entrance of the car park, wound down his window and entered into a discussion with a policeman about what was happening, blocking everyone behind him. ‘GET OUT THE BLOODY WAY!’ yelled furious onlookers. The racers were bearing down on us, we had no time to indulge their confusion.

Finally the road was cleared and moments later the cyclists appeared. The leaders sped towards us as the crowd began to clap and whoop. A group of children from the village primary school waved home made Union Jacks, cheering excitedly. At the back of the peloton (See? I told you) was Bradley Wiggins, leaning into the window of a support car and chatting away, looking for all the world like a man idling in a coffee shop rather than peddling a bike at 30ish mph. ‘Go on Wiggo!’ shouted the supporters, as he breezed along without a care in the world. He probably barely even noticed their presence, but they will all have taken home a memory to cherish.

In a flash they were gone. A minute or so later the chasing pack came round the corner and flew by at an equally baffling speed. In total we probably watched actual sport for about 30 seconds- if that- but it was the sense of occasion that made it worthwhile, even for a non-fan like me. Like I said, it’s not often that top level sport happens in Wiltshire, so when it does we might as well grab it and make an event of it, something we do not by creating great fanfare but by getting together and just sort of… hanging out. And when that event includes frenzied police riders, angry spectators and bewildered tractor drivers, so much the better. So, Bradley and pals, can we pencil you in for the same time again next year?