It’s always exciting to be at the outer edge of things, and Finistère, the furthermost tip of Brittany, fits the bill splendidly. The wild and ragged coast stands apparently on the fringe of infinity. Striding out, you feel at once very small and rather vibrant.

It’s a heady mix. There are, though, three considerations to bear in mind before setting out Brittany-bound. First, the weather is neurotic. A benevolent sky may change mood and drench you moments later. This can happen in August as in November.

Second, it’s useful to know that when you’ve seen one menhir, you’ve seen them all. There is no need to follow signs down country lanes to discover what is, unless you’re a prehistory fanatic, merely another big stone in a field.

And third, beware the excesses of Breton Celtic-ery. Folk music and crepes are great. Mystical symbols and magical amulets are crackers.

Get all that clear and you’re in for a treat here, where land ends and legends begin. The trip starts in Morlaix.

DAY ONE

The first thing you note is the great rail viaduct spanning the valley into which the town is wedged. The second is the sense of long-standing prosperity. Morlaix has made brass from its port for centuries.

Have a gander at the lovely half-timbered buildings and winding alleys, then repair to Rue Ange de Guernisac, a splendidly wonky old street. Lunch at Le Chaudron, jammed in there as the last book in a bookcase; from £13.

Drive out, down the east bank of the river, then trust to signs and luck to get you along the laughably sinuous lanes that lead to the Cairn de Barnenez (entry £3.20). On a glorious promontory, this is where the Neolithic French buried their chiefs, under a barrow of cut stones 240ft long.

Now continue towards the storybook port of Primel-Le Diben, for an early appreciation of the winning weirdness of this coast. One moment, you’re amid untamed rocks, heath and scrubland, the next you burst into well-tailored farmland that runs down almost to the water’s edge — and the next you’re in a hamlet of cottages, neat hedges and hydrangeas, almost suburban in its serenity. In few other places do such shaggy seaside, efficient agriculture and settled residential zones intermingle so nonchalantly.

Curl through Plougasnou, back down to the sea at St-Samson. Check in at the Hotel Roc’h Velen (00 33-2 98 72 30 58, www.hotelrochvelen.fr), two seaside houses knocked into one simply charming hotel; doubles from £25, or £30 in high season; dinner from £12.

DAY TWO

Stroll from the hotel, past a scattering of houses, to the deserted beach for an early-morning intake of the elements. Then drive back to Morlaix and bounce straight out again.