There was once a time when my dreams of driving through California involved either cruising in an open-topped red Chevy with surfboard in the boot and the Beach Boys blaring from a stereo, or straddling a roaring Harley-Davidson as I thundered through the Sunshine State with not a care in the world.

But at nearly 38 and newly divorced with all the turmoil and baggage that brings- plus, it has to be said, an aversion to tall waves and fast motorbikes – having had a nasty fall with a friend while in Australia – but as one says - that is another story.

A sedate motor home with soft furnishings plus high-tech trimmings offered a perfect solution. Bung everything in the back and head off down Pacific Highway One.

Yeah, man!!!.
For many years my holidays, away from my boring British government job. Involved travelling in an old VW campervan that had seen most parts of South Africa, Namibia, Tanzania and Zimbabwe. This was full of character but with little in the way of mod-cons such as heating and, well, anything. But I loved it and even gave it a name: Harriet.
 
I had a brief sojourn in Australia with a real twin axle caravan behind a massive Holden truck which was considered luxury against the cramped quarters of Harriet.

But these US motor homes, or RVs - recreational vehicles - as they are known across the Atlantic, are a totally different species altogether.

The one decided I to rent was 31ft long. But that's just the start of it. The monster was equipped with two double beds, a shower room, toilet, fridge-freezer, oven, hob, microwave and satellite TV. There was even a clever compartment that, at the flick of a switch, literally pushed out a whole new living annexe at the side of the vehicle. I had decided that this trip I wasn’t going to be alone – I was to meet up with a good friend from Atlanta Georgia.

I had my own double bedroom at the back. My daughter (Ruth, who was just 13) slept snugly in a bunk above the driver's cabin. My friend from Atlanta daughter – nine -year-old Hannah opted for her own double bed that sprang from the sofa in the lounge. My friend from Atlanta had her own double bedroom. We had both come through rather sticky divorces and we just wanted to get away as “good friends” and relax together.

We had met whilst in government service basically doing the same jobs but she was working for the opposition – America - whist I was working for Her Britannic Majesty. We were and still are the very best of friends – completely platonic and never anything else. Neither of us would have wanted it.

There was a time when, as a VW campervan veteran, I may have sneered at such fancy functions, but not any more. Over the next 20 days and 1,500 miles this home on wheels would be the driving force behind the “family” holiday of a lifetime. It allowed us to camp next to 300ft tall redwoods, 2,000ft waterfalls, 3,000ft granite peaks and the most magnificent of Pacific beaches whose ocean roared through the night.

It kept us warm through snowstorms and cool during 80 degrees of midday heat. By its side, we toasted marshmallows over the campfire and gazed at the star-studded night skies. We saw coyotes, condors, elephant seals and sea lions. Oh yes, and a very large mouse called Mickey.

The holiday began with three days in a hotel in San Francisco, giving us time to recover from jet lag and simply to enjoy one of the world's best cities. The children were waking us up at 4.30am so we took early morning cable cars up the steepest hills to catch views of Golden Gate Bridge and stop off downtown for whopping big breakfasts at Fifties-style diners replete with jukeboxes, retro pinball machines and waiters who called us 'buddy'. By the end of the third day we were all raring to begin the real adventure and get the motor running.

Before you pick up your RV you have to sit through a 45-minute video presentation explaining all the vehicle's multiple functions. At first it seems bamboozling and a touch scary, but after 24 hours it all falls into place. Once your RV is fully stocked with water, petrol, gas and food you are completely self-contained for three or four days. Driving the beast was pretty straightforward with power steering and wide roads.

Our first destination was Yosemite National Park, 200 miles inland. The torrential rainstorm that had swept in off the Pacific as we left San Francisco had turned into a full-blown snow blizzard by the time we were winding our way through the Sierra Mountains at 4,000ft. When we finally reached the entrance of the national park, the rangers informed us that we could not go any further without snow chains on our tyres - they were expecting a foot of snow that night and didn't want anybody sliding off a mountain's edge into an icy ravine in the dark.

We were directed to an area of a redwood forest where we could park for the evening. As she waved us through, one of the rangers told us to watch out for the bears - they had seen tracks in the snow. 'Bears,' squealed both the children in unison.

'Don't worry,' I said, 'Winnie the Pooh was a bear and he was friendly, so was Paddington. In any case they're vegetarian.'

I wasn't entirely convinced myself, but after we had parked, switched on the space heater and rustled up some grub, I took a torch and went to check out a nearby notice board to see what we should do if we did encounter a Winnie who wasn't quite as fluffy or amicable as the AA Milne version.

I wished I hadn't. There were photos of bears ripping off car doors and prising open boots with gigantic claws and warnings to put every scrap of food in the thick metal bear-proof containers provided. As for tips on what to do should a bear attack: it seemed the answer was make a loud noise and pray. Underneath this notice was a second notice warning about mountain lions! Apparently, they hunt at night and prefer to attack prey out walking alone. Looking over my shoulder, I hurried back to the RV and look for the button marked 'force field'.

Having survived the night, we woke to daybreak as magical as any I can recall. The rangers had been right. A foot of pure white snow had fallen, but the storm had passed and the sky was bright blue with sun streaming through the leaves of soaring redwoods. We dressed up warm and went for a walk in this wonderland. The sheer scale of the brutal granite peaks towering over its vast canopy of trees set among raging rivers and some of the world's highest and most dramatic waterfalls was breathtaking.

A decision to get the wagons rolling came three days later when various lights flashed on the RV's control panel alerting us that our waste tanks were full. If there is one downside to living in a motor home with a family of four, it is that at some stage you are going to have to get rid of the sewage.

In theory the procedure should be painless. Drive to an aptly named 'dumping' station, don some rubber gloves, attach a hose to a special connection at the side of the van, pull two levers and the family muck should gush out into a big hole. In practice, leaky pipes and the occasional blockage provides some diverting fun for the rest of the family as they watch Dad struggle with the stinky mess. Both of the kids called me dad!

Still, at least there was the next stop to look forward to. In our case we were heading back to the coast to the rather groovy university town of Santa Cruz. At five hours, this was our longest drive. We passed the time by listening to the various country radio stations and keeping an ear out for the worst lyrics. Our favourite was a religious ditty which included the memorable couplet: 'If heaven was a beer, it would be a cold one.'

The drive was also eased by the scenery rolling past the windows - swathes of lush farmland, reminiscent of a John Steinbeck novel. And as we sang along to Johnny Cash and co we witnessed strawberry season in full flow with thousands of migrant workers bent double picking the fruit. Everything grows in the Californian sunshine and farm shops along the roads sell all kinds of produce from locally grown apples and avocados to artichokes and almonds.

We stayed just outside Santa Cruz at a Kamp of America campsite - a kind of US version of Eurocamp where you can hook your RV up to electricity and water supply while the children enjoy the heated outdoor swimming pools, great playgrounds, well-stocked shops and nearby beaches.

Having been bombarded by the wonders of Mother Nature, it was a break for the children to get some good old-fashioned man-made amusements; and this gets no better than Santa Cruz's historic boardwalk with its 1950s funfair with an old-style wooden rollercoaster, classic bumper cars, cotton candy and corn-dog stalls. All this while Beach Boys songs play from the loudspeakers and surfers with boards under their arms head for the big waves.

From then on it was due south all the way down Pacific Highway One. The drive itself is simply mesmerising: ocean on one side and great swathes of mountainous hillsides jutting out at every conceivable angle.

Every 50 or so miles is some jewel of a town to stop for lunch or a stroll along the beach. We spent a beautiful morning on the beach at Monterey watching surfers, finding starfish in tide pools and eating scrumptious fish and chips on the wharf while sea lions swam around the harbour's fishing boats. We then drove onwards through the exquisite Carmel Valley.

Our next major stop was to be at Big Sur. Many people who do the famous drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles speed past this beautiful stretch of coastline, but tucked away just off Highway One is the Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park which has been described as the region's crown jewel and, for us, was a highlight of the trip. Like Yosemite it has nature in abundance with mountains, rivers, waterfalls and wildlife plus a crashing ocean close by. Yet the park is on a smaller scale, which somehow endows it with an extra charm. We found it difficult to leave and ended up staying for five days.

My advantage was that my partner for the holiday was American. She could find all the cheapest shops and laundrettes in any town that we went to. She only had to look at a bar or restaurant and we knew whether we were going in or not.

I made a very big mistake of going into a bar alone – when I was feeling rather temperamental after a particularly long hot and tiring day. I knew it was a mistake the moment I walked through the door. The place was full of beautiful women – too beautiful. All had what seemed to me over indulged in makeup. It was when I went to the bar that I fully realised my error. It was a licensed GAY bay. They have to be licensed if they are plying for “trade” as do the women’s bars as made famous by Dolly Parton. I did not get my drink and left quickly. After that my partner chose where we ate and had or refreshments.

This additional five day diversion ended our hope of getting to the Mexican border at the end of the trip. Still, we learnt one of the most important lessons of camping in California - how to make 'somores'. Every pitch at a state park comes with a metal fire ring - perfect for making a campfire to toast marshmallows over. But this being the US they go one step further. Not content with simply toasting the marshmallows they place them between a sandwich of Graham crackers and Hershey bar chocolate. These are then squished together to create an all-American campfire best-seller - the ‘somore’, so named because you have to eat 'some more'.

Santa Barbara was our next memorable destination. Another remarkable four-hour drive south on Highway One saw us lunch at a place where a community of huge hooting elephant seals return once a year to breed.

Santa Barbara is set among rolling hills and vineyards that were beautifully captured in the film 'Sideways'. Its town centre is both chic and bohemian with 'Prada boutiques' rubbing shoulders with second-hand retro clothing stores and book shops.

Everybody is skateboarding, surfing, rollerblading or hanging out and looking cool. It also has fantastic beaches wherever you look. We camped behind sand dunes at Carpinteria Beach, just a short drive south of the centre. It is a simple place but has a community feeling that comes alive when the sun sets behind the dunes and the camp fires get lit.

After a few days in Santa Barbara we decided to skirt around the ugly sprawl of Los Angeles and pitched up 80 miles south at stinking-rich Newport Beach in Orange County. Even the RV parks here are five-star and our stop at the Newport Dunes Resort meant a heated pool, beach, a lake and a marina full of yachts. After having the delights of European and African ‘full service’ pitches – these were like the Waldorf compared to the Holiday Inn.

But the main reason we stopped was that it was only a 35-minute drive from Disneyland. Like countless others before us, we had a fantastic last day with Mickey and his pals. Both our children would not disagree with Disney's claim to be the happiest place on earth.

But for my money that honour goes to inside our RV on our final evening when we stayed up recounting all the adventures of the three weeks together. No Chevy or Harley could match that.

Tips for dream camping in California
1 Stay in campgrounds run by the state or national park service. They're cheap and are in the best locations. If you are travelling in busy times it is best to book in advance. You can always cancel or change the bookings. Sites cost from $20 a night. Private sites will have more facilities including hook-ups for water and electricity but will cost more.

2 Don't try to do too much driving. California is simply huge. When you find a place that you enjoy stay for a few days. You can always come back for the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas and Mexico on another trip.

3 Travelling in the summer is hot and busy. In the winter, it is cold and quiet. We chose April which was just about perfect. We had snow and sunshine.

4 The exchange rate makes everything seem cheap. Eating out as a family at a decent restaurant costs around $20-$25. Petrol is still cheap at less than $1.50 a gallon but it's worth bearing in mind that your RV will do less than 10mpg.

5 There is plenty of storage space in your RV so take whatever clothes you need.

Travelling is good in America – like nowhere else on earth – there are the pitfalls though - like the police who hide behind bill boards waiting for the unwary motorist who inches just over the 50MPH national speed limit. Don’t try to bluff it out – they have heard all the answers – the best bet was to say sorry and pay the $50 fine – then call them all the names you like when you were safely out of their earshot, and miles down the road.

Food and restaurants always seem to cater for the whole family and the dogs, cats, Grandma, Grandpa and what ever you want to take home with you. We found  particularly good meals at a road house chain called Days Inn’s  - you could eat all you wanted from the buffet – as long as you ordered a steak. We always managed to have a complete meal from the buffet and ask for a doggy bag for the steak to eat the following day. Cola was bought by the 20oz pot – when it was empty you re-filled it at no extra cost. The kids loved it.

Some peculiarities one town we went to you couldn’t by liquor unless you were over 25 years of age, and even if you were, you could be asked to prove it. They didn’t understand a UK driving licence and passports in the main were things that foreigners had. Less than 25% of Americans have a passport!

The Americans love anything English – and on some stop-over or camp sites – we often had people come and talk to us just to hear the Quaint English accent. I did tell them that it was our language and we invented it and they had changed it – but of course it was our words that were wrong and couldn’t understand why we used the words which were incorrect.

So over 20 days and 1,500 miles later we returned our 31ft Recreational Vehicle [R.V.] back to the rental company El-Monte in San Francisco.  We boarded a plane and flew to Atlanta Georgia, which is the real Deep South and met up with my partners mother – Mama Iris -- who took us out to a “Po folk’s café”  as a welcome home
– But that is another story. As one says

Maurice

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