When too much is more than enough

Travel: On Pacific Coast Highway, in haze and heat, it is one of those days when nothing surprises. Close to Big Sur, we see two condors shredding a hawk in midair fight.

On Pacific Coast Highway, in haze and heat, it is one of those days when nothing surprises. Close to Big Sur, we see two condors shredding a hawk in midair fight. Ten minutes later, we zip past a bunch of hitch-hiking clowns. And then, unmistakable, up ahead through the thinning haar, the ghostly presence of the Sphinx.

You cannot mistake that majestic domed head staring over the ocean. Staring towards Egypt. "Maybe they've bought it, then floated it over," says my wife. I stare at the map to fix its position. Piedras Blancas.

Seconds later, the Sphinx is too big. An outsized lion in repose - one of nature's freaks - a rock formation with aspirations. Nothing more. Then, all at once, my eye is taken by something else atop the velvety swathe of hills: a glint of white. Our destination - California's version of Graceland, home of the newspaper magnate, William Randolph Hearst.

We drive to the visitor centre, my ticket already booked. My wife, feeling tired, forgoes the climb up the hundreds of steps and remains in the shop. I step on the tour bus. It's crowded with women wearing jewels and outsize shades. We're driven uphill and disgorged near the gates.

"If this is a castle, darling, then I'm a monkey's uncle!" says one of our party, blonde Katarina to John our guide, squinting up at the castle's Spanish-style towers. Katarina - from Boston, born in the fairytale city of Prague, with a mind that's been shaped by the brothers Grimm - is nobody's fool.

The mind-blowing mansion - silhouetted above San Simeon, in 127 acres of parkland - defies belief. Those wedding-cake towers, behind the shade of palms and cypress trees, with windows flashing in sunlight, are just a glimmer of what lies hidden.

Millionaire Hearst, the fat-cat media baron said to have been the model for Orson Welles's Citizen Kane, built this dreamland in 1919. Here he partied with Hollywood's A-list, seeking rest and a little chemical stimulation.

Carol Lombard, Cary Grant, Errol Flynn and Jean Harlow were part of the roll-call that capered and lounged around the fabulous Neptune pool, a pillared, Romanesque slice of Christmas cake (used in the swimming pool scene in Spartacus). Most of the action was horizontal.

Hearst built a landing strip on the hilltop. He made a 50-acre wild animal park from some of the mountain vastness. He cracked the whip.

There was no sleeping-in. No eating in rooms. Guests had to play tennis, dress up and put plays on for Hearst's amusement, or go to the zoo. They dined in extravagance, on some of the world's finest silver, under flags purloined from the Pallio in Italy, surrounded by priceless objects, yet using only paper napkins and splashing their food with dollops of Heinz ketchup, Hearst's favourite dressing. He was a puzzle, a rich shopaholic full of bemusing contradictions.

When he died, in August 1951, aged 88, the festivities ended. The Hearst Corporation gifted the castle to the state of California, and thus the public arrived, to ogle, take snaps and scram.

You're spoiled for choice, with five tours on offer: from the Garden Tour to the Evening Tour, which relives the castle's 1930s heyday. I take the Experience Tour, tailor-made for rookie visitors. This includes a giant-screen showing of the movie Building the Dream, a slice of hype that honours The Chief, portrayed as a modern American hero and not as the rogue some observers claimed.

Wear your shades: the sun will be shining on the fountains across the piazzas, the sky will be blue and your tour guide's voice will be murmuring softly about the parties they held, the japes and how you can hire the place for receptions, living your dream in the manner of Hearst. But the dazzle lies elsewhere.

Inside the house, adjust your eyeballs, take in the golden ornamentation, the icons, the crystal chandeliers. "If he liked it, he bought it," says John, pointing out a silver mace, an Egyptian statue, and yet another priceless great master (Madonna and child a speciality), a gross display of wealth that is so impressive, Katarina takes off her shades, steps back and sighs. Outside a bluebird sings. "This house," she declares, "is an ego trip. We are standing inside the head of Mr Hearst." There's a terrible silence. Even the bluebird seems momentarily to be tweetless. "What was he sniffing?" she asks and smiles.

But her smile is cold. And we pass through sunlight into the bus and all the way back to the crowded visitor centre and sanity, perhaps. "I bet it was cheesy," says my wife. "It was gorgonzola," I tell her. "Holy. A kind of prayer to the gods of excess." She doesn't smile. We drive to Cambrai, just down the coast at Moonstone Beach, and find somewhere to stay.

The Fog Catcher Inn says it all in its name. The summer weather here is fickle. Our luck is in. The haze has lifted and the oceanfront is lined with clapboard motels; the view from our room, with its wraparound balcony, takes in the beach with its narrow board-walk and pebble-dash shingle, awash with agate, jade and quartz.

I take a nap on the four-poster bed then spring to life and we drive to dinner at the Old Stone Station restaurant, a nest of oil lamps and wooden beams, with stained-glass features and to-die-for delicious food. William Randolph Hearst would doubtless have yelled for a bottle of ketchup, then doused the perfectly pan-fried salmon. We drool instead at every course, not least the baked mussels, the apple crumble. A night to remember.

Just after dawn, we take our leave with a stroll down the board-walk to the viewpoint, admiring the juniper trees, and watching the curious Californian squirrels that in turn are watching us. To the north, a lighthouse. A power-walker gasps a "good morning" as she passes. Pacific Coast Highway lies like a necklace of waiting surprises. Gaudy, gleaming, irresistible. Santa Barbara, here we come.

Need to know

Getting There: Virgin Atlantic flies daily to San Francisco via London Heathrow from Glasgow for £628.30 return, including taxes and charges. Go to www.virgin-atlantic.com.

Where to Stay: Fog Catcher Inn offers ocean-view and garden-view rooms. Doubles from £120 per night, including breakfast. Go to www.fogcatcherinn.com.