My children have clamoured to return to America ever since we spent a week in New York 18 months ago. They liked the burgers, the buildings, the buzz, everything. Most of all they liked seeing their godfather, Mikey, who lives in Brooklyn and is prepared to leap fully clothed into any convenient paddling pool for their passing amusement.

My wife and I said we wanted to go to California. Sam, 10, and Rachel, 8, graciously said that was fine provided Mikey came over to see them from the other coast. (They envisaged him making a longish drive, as when we go from London to Wales.) I said I’d ask him and, exemplary godfather that he is, he said he would meet us in LA.

Once in San Francisco, we picked up our camper van from a charming Romanian called Gabriel, then drove to nearby (70 miles, but nearby in American terms) Santa Cruz, where my cousin Martin has lived for many years. Sue, Martin’s Californian wife, was a mine of information on the micro-sociology of the area, the high-tech hinterland of San Francisco, from San José (“Barbies who get boob jobs for graduation presents”) to beardy, pony-tailed Santa Cruz (“we’re all lovable crunchy munchy hippies”).

One thing I love about Americans is their forthright, pithily expressive mode of speech. They talk in the best tabloidese, and that’s meant as a compliment. Their reputation for friendliness is also justified. My son asked a biker in a car park if he could look at his Harley. In Britain, he would probably get a nervous “be careful”. Here, the response was “hop right up there, little buddy”. Other passing strangers would say “welcome to paradise” and mean it. Smug it may be, but you can see their point.

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From my cousin’s place we drove east across the Central Valley, America’s salad bowl, 100 miles of fertility nurtured from a semi-desert, Mexicans doing all the work. It’s an atmospheric place, with its shacks and abandoned farms, trailer parks and dried-up river beds, every traffic sign familiar from Steinbeck and Springs-teen: Salinas, Firebaugh, Fres-no, Marysville. California’s wealth is almost exclusively coastal. (So is its colour. The coast is a riot of orange and red and pink, the interior is all dun and dust.) The wealth feels fragile too, given the water shortage and the ever-present threat of what my daughter called “earthcakes”.

Across the Central Valley is Yosemite National Park in the Sierra Nevada. We’d half considered sleeping in the van but in the hills it was too cold and by the time we reached the south, we had become addicted to motels with pools. Also, the two-for-one dollar rate made us a lot richer: $150 (£75) for a more-than-decent room felt affordable, especially as the alternative was the four of us shivering in the VW all night. With bears outside. And coyotes. And cougars.

They’re big on bears in Yosemite: bear statues, bear plaques, bear warnings, nonstop bear talk. At our motel, we were told to take pretty much everything, including sun-cream, out of the van and into our room. Nobody seemed concerned that the locks and hinges on the room door were a good deal less robust than the ones on the van. Still, good fun: never in one 48-hour period have I pretended on so many occasions to my wife that she had a bear standing behind her.

I also enjoyed Bridal Veil falls, the grandeur, the name and in particular the sign warning you against climbing on the rocks at the bottom: “Icy water will rapidly incapacitate you and strong currents will batter you to death against the rocks”. A classic of American straight-talking.

Driving back to the coast, we reached Monterey and its redeveloped Cannery Row (tacky) and aquarium (superb). I saw an ocean sunfish for the first time – hilarious, like something knocked up by the Doctor Whoprops department in the Sixties. The sea otters swim on their backs to keep their (uninsulated) paws warm. “That’s otterly ridiculous,” I said to my son. Eavesdropping Americans loved that – hey, check out the witty English guy – and fell about as if I were Oscar Wilde.

From Monterey we drove down the Pacific Coast Highway, also known as Route One, stopping off at the beautiful, highly manicured, Pebble Beach and Carmel before reaching the more rugged stretch around Big Sur and then the college town of San Luis Obispo, which the children called San Loo-Seat Obiscuit, which amused their mother and father at least. Near Obiscuit, we stayed at the Sycamore Mineral Springs hotel, highly recommended. A man called Skip gave me a massage. “I’ve been driving this big old VW camper,” I told Skip, “how’s my back?” “It’s saying ‘help me’,” said Skip. “There’s a lot of nutrients trapped there.”

In LA we met Mikey, who obliged his godchildren with a sprint into the Pacific. Much to our surprise, the children announced they didn’t want to go to Disneyland or Universal Studios.

Of the two famous cities in California, San Francisco is the one we were drawn to rather than LA. San Fran is on a human scale. LA isn’t. So, after a game of volleyball at Santa Monica, we headed north again, to Santa Barbara, this time mostly on the quicker 101 with its rich roadkill harvest of raccoon, buzzard, skunk and weasel, not corpses you see on the M25. In all we covered 1,500 miles and yet saw only a fraction of the state. Americans say petrol prices are scandalous, but at about $3.50 (about £1.75) a gallon, the Brits say bring on the scandal.

The last time I drove a van, in Sardinia last year, I managed to back it into a tree. Sadly, my skills haven’t improved. “There’s a wall on my side,” said my wife during one tight manoeuvre, but I ignored her. Whack: a $952 dent. “Why did you ignore what I said?” she wanted to know. “It’s the price of freedom,” I replied.

Still, averaging 100 miles a day, two or three hours driving given the speed limits and the twistiness along the coast, the van was worth it for the extra freedom and space. The children could listen to their iPods and ignore some of the most stupendous scenery in the world. We would drive in the afternoons, have lots of stops, start thinking about somewhere to stay about six, look around wherever it was that evening and, next morning, get on the road about lunchtime.

We didn’t book anywhere ahead and only once had a minor panic finding a room. On that occasion the first vacancy sign we saw was outside a falling-down shack reminiscent of the Bates motel in Psycho. “It’s either here or spending loads of money somewhere else,” I said to my wife. “Well, I would rather,” announced my daughter with enormous gravity, “spend loads of moneythan stay here.” “Yes, thank you for that contribution, Rachel,” I replied.

Need to know

Robert Crampton and family flew to San Francisco from Heathrow with Virgin Atlantic (0870 5747747, www.virginatlantic.com), which has return fares from £628. The Cramptons hired their campervan through California Campers (001 650 216 0000, www.californiacampers.com). In summer (high season), vehicles can be rented from £60 (US$120) per day.

Trailfinders (0845 0505871, www.trailfinders.com) can also arrange RV hire all over the US. For example, a family motorhome from San Francisco airport costs from £462 for two weeks. Other RV Rental companies include: www.elmonte.com; www.cruiseamerica.com.

Further information: California Tourism (020-7257 6180, www.visitcalifornia.com) has suggested itineraries, maps and other information for road trips.

Reading: California (Lonely Planet, £15.99).

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