We're California dreaming

In Santa Barbara, the ever-smiling sun bleaches the walls a shade of white that's as bright as the teeth of the Los Angelinos who spend their weekends here. By plane it's an almost sinfully short journey, barely 20 minutes from LAX. But those 20 minutes are enough to keep Santa Barbara separate. Its fortifications lie not in ramparts or castellated walls. Quite simply, you have to be wealthy to live here, so the blacks and hispanics who serve the town's inhabitants and visitors melt away with the dusk, leaving the god-fearing, surgically enhanced white folk of Santa Barbara to play out their perfectly buffed lives. This is where Ronald Reagan had his ranch.

In Santa Barbara, the ever-smiling sun bleaches the walls a shade of white that's as bright as the teeth of the Los Angelinos who spend their weekends here. By plane it's an almost sinfully short journey, barely 20 minutes from LAX. But those 20 minutes are enough to keep Santa Barbara separate. Its fortifications lie not in ramparts or castellated walls. Quite simply, you have to be wealthy to live here, so the blacks and hispanics who serve the town's inhabitants and visitors melt away with the dusk, leaving the god-fearing, surgically enhanced white folk of Santa Barbara to play out their perfectly buffed lives. This is where Ronald Reagan had his ranch.

The abnormally unmixed population strolling along Santa Barbara's boulevards makes it clear that in this curiously American oil-and-water mix of puritanism and bohemianism you're closer to the puritanism of the Wasp class, even though this is the funky West Coast.

That said, Santa Barbara has plenty to offer the traveller who wants a peaceful break. The Inn of the Spanish Garden on Garden Street, half way up the town looking towards the mountains, makes an ideal base. There are 23 rooms and suites framing terracotta-tiled courtyards, and despite being minutes away from Main Street the only sound in the air is the tinkle of the iced-tea jugs being constantly refreshed in the downstairs drawing-room. Distinctive Californian touches are provided by the complimentary Santa Barbara wine (of which more later) and the sign over the mini-bar which reads: "Dear Guest, drinking distilled spirits, beer, coolers, wine and other alcoholic beverages may increase cancer risk, and during pregnancy can cause birth defects." Grateful for the warning, we duly polished off a bottle.

If the level of luxury and the superb food (spinach quiches, delightful mini-scones and perfect espresso for breakfast at the Inn) are just two good reasons to stay here, the ocean is another. Kayaking through the harbour and along its wall affords a view of the whole Santa Barbara riviera. The waves rise up outside the harbour, but even a novice will be able to handle them. Playful sea-lions splash alongside, making their way to the tall buoys on which they congregate in their dozens.

It's all in keeping with the spirit of Santa Barbara that the sea-life is exotic and fabulous, but not remotely threatening. On another morning we went out on the Condor Express, a super-catamaran. Rough weather ruled out the planned cruise to the Channel Islands National Park, so we settled instead for whale-watching. While in search of the elusive leviathans we were accompanied by schools of dolphins. Then the distinctive clear swells in the water signalled that we had found what we were looking for. A hump-backed whale heaved out of the water, its barnacle-encrusted chin in full view, before disappearing in slow-motion, turning as it did so that its mighty tail gracefully waved and then slid back underwater.

The other side of the town leads up to the mountains and Santa Barbara's wine country. They're very proud of their wine here. Don't ask for a Napa Valley bottle in Santa Barbara; it's a serious faux pas.

Jeeps tour the hills, stopping off at numerous small vineyards, each of which have stone-built tasting areas, as though left behind by the European monks responsible for some of the old world's great vintages. As one would expect, the emphasis is on young, fresh wines, in particular a multiplicity of chardonnays with more edge to them than is typical of the Antipodean labels that have colonised Britain.

The second half of our trip was spent at the Santa Barbara Inn on the ocean front. Despite the efforts of the eager-to-please manager, Tom Beedon, this hotel seems to have been left behind when the rest of Santa Barbara had its last facelift. The bedrooms (non-airconditioned) were a symphony in beige. In its restaurant, Citronelle, the décor was incongruously high and oddly mixed. The food, though, was mostly excellent.

At the Pierre Lafond Deli on Main Street the next morning, where the greatest blueberry pancakes known to man can be found (huge, crumbling, cake-like discs), it's easy to see why the Los Angelinos like to come here. It's clean, it's quiet (very little in the way of night life), and the extremes of nature's beauty, the ocean and the mountains, lie either side of the town. It's a perfect upper-middle class American dream. But flying afterwards into LA, mixed-up, murderous and superficial city though it is, one experiences a strange sense of welcome. Ah yes, back to reality

Sholto Byrnes travelled with American Airlines (0845 7789 789; www.americanairlines.co.uk), which offers return flights to Santa Barbara via Los Angeles from £538 in May if you book before 30 April. He stayed at the Inn of the Spanish Garden, 915 Garden Street (001 805 564 4700; www.spanish gardeninn.com), where b&b in a double starts from $225 (£150), and the Santa Barbara Inn (001 800 231 0431; www.santabarbarainn.com) which offers doubles from $279 (£185). For information on California, contact the tourist board (001 213 624 7300, calls cost £1.50 per minute; www.visitcalifornia.com).

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