The Ranch at Laguna Beach

‘Give me Party of Five and Dawson’s Creek any day – I was too old for The OC’’, said Mr Smith as we entered Orange County, the eponymous setting of the Noughties TV drama. ‘Speak for yourself!’, I thought. I might well have been too old, but I remember addictively catching up on my weekendly dose of beautiful people and beautiful beaches in all its pop-culture glory.

Travelling down from LA, Orange County with its hummer-dinger cars and nouveau mansions, is positively suburban by contrast – like Surrey is to bigger sister London. As the Pacific Coast Highway wound south, we approached our home for the weekend: Laguna Beach.

I thought we might encounter the drunken party town portrayed in MTV’s racy Real Orange County reality show (my TV tastes aren’t always so low-brow, I promise) but we were pleasantly surprised by the charming arts ‘n’ crafts bungalows tumbling down towards the sea, the chic boutiques and the all-round artsy vibe.

Veering off our coastal path, we headed down a dusty road to our hotel, the Ranch at Laguna Beach, set in the heart of a verdant valley. Chirpy valets offered to park our car and ushered us into the buzzy lobby. In fact, we hadn’t quite anticipated just how buzzy it would be…

It was a Saturday afternoon in balmy October – with wedding season still in full swing – so we’d missed a spot for dinner at the Ranch’s restaurant, Harvest (lesson learned: make sure you book in advance). But no bother, dinner with the lapping waves of Laguna in ear-shot would do just fine.

From the homely, neutral decor, we could see why it’s a private family resort. Modelled on a coastal ranch, inside is all chunky beams, antler chandeliers, exposed Flintstonian walls, hurricane lamps and driftwood artwork. Outside, sturdy wooden rocking chairs stand beside fire pits and atmospheric festoon lights, with sweeping views over the golf fairways (a major draw at the hotel) and the canyon. While our room was prepared, we headed over to take in views of the valley and grab coffees from Ben’s Pantry café.

My phone soon rang with news that our cottage suite was ready. The smell of new sofas and carpets hit us as we entered the huge two-storey, two-bedroom, two-bathroom, 1,125sq ft ‘cottage’, complete with entertaining area and extra sofa bed. Our prime real estate also featured a patio and balcony overlooking a Pinterest-perfect American wedding playing out on the golf course below.

We nosy Brits headed straight for the rocking chairs that doubled as front-row seats, and popped open a bottle of chilled prosecco we procured on route. The wedding linen dancing on the breeze and the spectacle of the bridal-party parade – starring 20 family members, 12 bridesmaids (one of whom tripped), 12 ushers, six flower girls and a stunning bride (whose serenity amid the pomp was a feat) – played out in front of us.

At dusk, we headed back into Laguna for a fireside dinner at highly-recommended restaurant Splashes, where the waves washed beneath us, before returning to the hotel to find the now twinkling golf-course wedding drawing to a close. Pillow chocolates were snaffled before flopping onto our downy bed.

Not unlike Dirty Dancing’s Kellerman’s Resort, there’s a schedule of activities available at the Ranch, from a rise-and-shine stretch class to hot cocoa and storytelling around the campfire. Mr Smith’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a high-intensity, interval-training class at the shiny fitness studio, so he rose with the other early bird and left me to a lie-in. Refreshed, we headed to Harvest restaurant for a So-Cal Sunday brunch full of Mexican favourites, including chilaquiles (breakfast nachos loaded with sunny-side-up eggs, black beans, roast-tomato salsa, queso fresco, avocado and a dollop of smoked-paprika sour cream) to set us up for a day at the beach.

With miles of sand around Laguna, we were spoilt for bathing spots, but had it on good authority that Aliso Beach, nearest the Ranch, was a beauty. The waves crashed and bronzed surfers deftly pounced on their boards. The allure of doing dolphin dives of our own was too great, so we braved the wild ocean, doing a few washing-machine spins, losing my sunglasses (schoolgirl error) and nearly (but luckily not quite) my bikini.

Mr Smith had booked dinner in time for sunset at laidback local restaurant Driftwood Kitchen, where – along with sensational seafood – we were treated to sweeping views of the Pacific, a rainbow-hued sunset, dolphins and a lazy seal dancing on the surf.

Not wanting the night to end, we headed back to base for a nightcap. The enveloping darkness surrounded us as we kicked back in a pair of rocking chairs to contemplate this stunning stretch of California. The real joy is that it feels like two holidays in one: you can head to the beach to see dolphins; or the hills to spy birds of prey circling over the canyon.

Back in our palatial bed, a sleepy Mr Smith leant over: ‘Is The OC on Netflix? Maybe it’s worth a watch after all…’, before slipping off in seconds. Nibbling the pillow chocolates, I smiled contentedly and promptly joined him.