An English country girl in California: Cruising Highway 1 to Monterey, Carmel and Big Sur

Americans love big cars. So much so, that, on picking up our hire car, the cheapest option Enterprise could offer, we were offered a Fiat 500 with as much enthusiasm as if it had been a clapped-out old Ford Escort. But we were delighted – it was a gorgeous little thing, brand new, shiny black and great fun to drive. And, as a combination of terrible maps (Americans haven’t quite embraced the concept of putting all the roads on a map of California), worse road signs and a refusal to use Satnav meant that we found some fantastic, but very tiny, roads, the Fiat turned out to be the perfect car.

For more photographs, read through to the end.
Images taken by Octavia Pollock and Sybil Cope

Our beloved Fiat 500 next to a more typical American car

The Fiat parked by Carmel beach

Setting off from San Francisco airport, I and Sybil Cope, an Irish friend and intern at not-for-profit organization 826 Valencia (http://826valencia.org/), which helps children develop their writing skills, headed west to the fabled Highway 1 that runs down the coast of California. We took a slightly roundabout (and not entirely planned) route around the vast and palatial Stanford University, then over the Los Altos Hills by way of Old La Honda Road. It wound up and up through forests of redwoods, which began hundreds of feet below us in a ravine and towered out of site above, their trunks straight and tall as Guards officers on parade. The odd postbox revealed the presence of cabins clinging to the precipitous slopes, and we overtook several dedicated cyclists determined to reach the top. Crossing Skyline Boulevard on the summit, we plunged down again through meadows and blossoming trees, eventually joining the main road to the coastal district of Pescadero.

Grey dunes from Highway 1 - where was the Californian sun?

Sadly, the cloud cover we thought we had left behind in San Francisco returned to dog us on our way south, but nothing could diminish the majesty of the Pacific. On reaching Monterey Bay, the sun came out, and the sea turned from gunmetal to sapphire, bordered by great pale sand dunes that threatened to engulf the road. Monterey Bay is home to some of the deepest waters in the world and the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary is the largest such sanctuary in the world by volume. What wonders lurk in its waters? The Loch Ness monster's summer lodging? The legendary Kraken? Vast cousins of the creatures housed in the renowned Monterey Aquarium?

The writer and Sybil on the shores of mysterious Monterey Bay

Safely on dry land, we found our B&B on the pretty main street of Pacific Grove, an historic village by Monterey full of cheerfully painted cottages and villas, many with plaques denoting the date of construction together with the original owner’s name. Our Gosby House Inn (http://www.gosbyhouseinn.com/), one of the Four Sisters collection of boutique B&Bs, was built by J. F. Gosby, a cobbler from Nova Scotia, in 1886-88. In order to accommodate increasing numbers of guests, he added on a room here and there as necessary to create a delightfully higgledy-piggledy building in the classic Californian Queen Anne style. Now, it is a charming inn with comfortable rooms, delicious afternoon tea cooked fresh every day and a decanter of something stronger set out ready each night for the guests’ evening tipple.

Gosby House Inn by night, courtesy of Four Sisters Inns

In the biggest sweet shop I have ever seen!

Original huts on Cannery Row

A wander along Cannery Row of John Steinbeck fame and a bowl of clam chowder ended the day, and we woke refreshed for the famous 17-mile Drive that winds past the astonishing houses of Pebble Beach. The kind of place where owners build a complete $1 million house to live in when their own is being renovated, only to knock it down afterwards, it is a cornucopia of excess, tempered by centuries of history from the Spanish explorers who first discovered the area and gorgeous views of the vast Pacific ocean. Sprawling Italianate piles shelter under the tall, grey Monterey cypresses, jumbles of fairy-tale turrets and battlements loom up on the slopes and, everywhere, vast windows make the most of the breathtaking views. From Spanish Bay to Bird Rock, from the Lone Cypress to Carmel Beach itself, the red line down the middle of the road leads from viewpoint to viewpoint, the private palaces rivalling the rocky shore at every corner. Carmel itself is beautiful, with a pretty main street of beguiling shops leading down to a sweep of white sand, off which we saw dolphins cavorting in the waves.

A summer house? A gatehouse? An extra bedroom?

A Pebble Beach mansion channels a fairy-tale castle in its garden

The Lone Cypress, symbol of Pebble Beach, and genuinely ancient

for America - 250 years old

Sea lions and sea birds crowded together on the appropriately named Bird Rock

Leaving the glamour of Pebble Beach behind, we pointed the little snub-nosed Fiat south again on Highway 1 to Big Sur. Those who had urged us to take the road had not exaggerated – it is breathtaking. Such are the views that it is easy to see why the authorities spend close to $1 million every year rebuilding the bits that fall into the sea. They were still at work – one section clinging halfway up a cliff was a single-track road held up by a few rickety pilings. At least we knew that if an American truck could make it without taking the whole thing into the Pacific, our Fiat could! Beyond the road, cliffs plunge into foam-flecked seas of deepest aquamarine, darkest blue and vivid green, broken by wide sweeps of white sand. On land, only a painter equipped with the richest of oil paints could do justice to the myriad colours of the hills, reds and neon pink, soft yellows and olive greens, splashed with bright green where tiny trickles ran down clefts to the sea. Two great bridges span the largest ravines, eagles soar above and occasional tracks wind down to houses perched precipitously on narrow ledges above the waves.

Looking towards Big Sur on Highway 1

Beyond Big Sur itself, where the road turns inland through forested valleys, we took a chance on a lane that led towards the sea in the hope of finding a sandy spot to have lunch. A sign, well off the main road, indicated Pfeiffer Beach and we wound through a sun-dappled valley that reminded me of Exmoor. Our hope that we had discovered a secret hideaway faded when we found a pay booth and a carpark, but the beach itself was worth it. A great rock guarded the entrance, fissured and broken by archways through which the waves crashed, and steep dunes led up to dry grassy hills behind. Walking north from the entrance, we left the most crowded part and settled down in a sunny corner to sunbathe in true Californian style. The winds that make sunbathing almost impossible on San Franciscan beaches were absent, and the constant roar of the waves drowned every other noise. Sourdough bread, salami and olives stuffed with ‘blue cheese’ completed a very happy picture.

Not a bad view from a picnic spot! The Pacific crashing on Pfeiffer Beach

Returning home to San Francisco the following day, we again left the beaten track and drove inland from Santa Cruz through vast areas of industrial farming. This is the garden of America, one of the most fertile areas in the States, and the scale is enormous. Warehouses containing every vegetable imaginable border the dusty roads and sprinklers pump out a mixture of water and fertilizer over hundreds of acres. Dozens of workers in wide-brimmed hats bend constantly to pick strawberries, almonds and artichokes, as huge trucks trundle off to the container ships and trains that transport the produce around the world. It is a stark contrast to the sleek, manicured streets of Pebble Beach.

A cheerfully painted warehouse in the agricultural district

After one abortive attempt to cross the mountains via a lane that turned out to be closed, we took Mount Madonna Road over the pass, which afforded spectacular views of the agricultural district and the sea on the way up, then turned into a tiny, dusty track on the other side. We crept downwards as the sun shot the occasional beam through the towering redwoods, hugging the edge of the road and thanking our lucky stars for the tiny Fiat when a huge truck roared past round a corner. We probably gave him more of a fright than he gave us – little black Fiat 500s are probably as rare here as a summer shower.

Kicking up dust on the way down from Mount Madonna

A detour to Montalvo Arts Center (http://montalvoarts.org/) took us past the some of the worst of stereotypical American communities, temples to shopping and fast food in the form of sprawling malls only accessible by car. However, the villa was set up a winding drive in a secluded cleft in the hills, a suitable setting for the artists’ residences based there. Sybil's mother, Elizabeth, is an artist (http://elizabethcope.com/), and the family hosts similar residencies at their home in Ireland, Shankill Castle in Co Kilkenny (http://shankillcastle.com), hence the detour. The colours and sunshine may be richer here, but I wonder if soft Irish green and rolling hills might not be my preferred setting, far away from retail sprawl. It would be interesting to see what the same artist would produce in each place!

Sculptures in the Italianate garden of Montalvo Arts Center

Thankfully, we left the sprawl of San Jose and Saratoga behind to climb up into the hills once more, and traverse the ridge along Skyline Boulevard, which afforded glorious views of the San Francisco Bay and the city itself, hazy in the distance. As the light waned, we plunged west to the sea, and ended our trip on Grey Whale Beach, an almost empty sweep of sand where waves broke in glittering shards of gold and pink in the last rays of the setting sun. When California pays homage to the gods of Nature rather than the gods of shopping, it is one of the most beautiful places on Earth.