I am having a one-to-one with Elvis. He is a wild beast – an absolute stallion.

Don’t worry, I haven’t lost my marbles, I’m simply on a wild west holiday and have just experienced a dignified trot on a horse named after the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.

The scene of my adventure is the Circle Bar B Guest Ranch and Stables, a breathtaking two-hour drive up the famous Pacific Coast Highway from Los Angeles, past the surfing paradise and celebrity haunt of Malibu, just inland near Santa Barbara. The ranch sits atop the Santa Ynez mountains in the heart of the central coast wine country. So at least there’s alcohol nearby, just in case.

Dude ranch holidays became trendy in the 1990s following the release of City Slickers, the movie starring Billy Crystal in which a bunch of chums avert their midlife crises by spending two weeks herding cattle while riding steeds and wearing Stetsons. By the end of their stint, the rugged cowboy life has helped them figure out what’s really important in life: family, someone to love, enjoying the small things. And the boss cowboy gets to deliver the killer line: “When the three of you first got here, you were as worthless as hen **** on a pump handle. Now look at you – you’re cowboys.”

And that’s just how we were hoping to feel – hubby Steve and the three kids (Molly, 11, Syd, eight, and Mery, six). And from the off, the omens were good.

Is it shallow to get excited about the décor of a place rather than the spiritual experience one is, in theory, about to undergo?

If so, I plead guilty, your honour. The Circle B is so cutesy cowboy chic, with its red clapboard ranch office, south-western art and textiles, old photos and distinct signage, that I’m gushing like a peachy keen greenhorn when Henry, our smiling host, shows us around.

The ranch feels more like a home than a commercial venture – probably because it has been in the same family for three generations. Florence Brown bought the ranch in 1939 and her son Jim, although now in his 80s, is still doing his bit, but it’s his daughter Kathy who runs the ranch day to day.

She is a gracious hostess, full of down-home charm and immediately upgrades us to the ranch’s best accommodation upon checking in. Which makes us like her even more.

Henry leads us to Hillside Homestead, a plush three-bedroom house.

Seeing the kids marvelling at the creek and woodland the house overlooks, Henry warns the kids about the poisonous oak and snakes lurking in the undergrowth.

Syd, Mery and Molly can’t believe their luck: a mansion and dangerous nature – they are in heaven.

We arrive too late in the afternoon to head out on the horseback trails, so we take a dip in the outdoor pool and hot tub, where the ranch dog Spencer is on hand to round us up when it’s dinner time.

Steve is a terrible food snob and long before our arrival started to moan about what he imagined he’d be forced to eat during our all-meals-included stay.

He was, as is often the way with husbands, wrong.

The BBQ buffet sees all hands on deck: Jim, Kathy, Henry, a couple of cowhands and Reuben the Mexican chef line up canteen-style to serve us guests a stupendous selection of exquisite meats and veg: including the piece-de-resistance ‘Tri-Tip beef’ - their version of sirloin.

After dinner and a large margarita at the bar (frequented by a few friendly guests and a large stuffed black bear), we head over to the theatre.

I’m sure most ranches don’t have theatres, but a tequila or two always sets you up for a new adventure, no matter the incongruity, so the whole family and about six others stumble through the dark to the small shack at the back of the stables to see Wally’s Café.

In the play, Wally and his wife set up a café in the desert in the 1940s.

It’s a failure, but for the next 50 years the couple stick with it, wishing for a brighter tomorrow.

It’s heavy stuff, and I’m left hoping tomorrow’s horse ride will be slightly less full of existential angst.

In City Slickers, Curly Washburn is the hardnut leather-faced cowboy charged with whupping the city softies into shape (actor Jack Palance won an Oscar for the role). And I’m on the lookout for our Curly as we arrive at the stables the next morning.

“Step AWAY from the horse, lady!”

One of the cowboys is very Curly-like, and he barks at me as I oafishly rush up to the first available-looking horse. He eyes me up and down, “You’re on Elvis,” he half sighs.

I take it as a compliment that he can tell merely from my exterior I should be given a horse with a cool name.

Our actual guide for the morning turns out to be Francis, a laid-back dude in his 50s who used to be an executive.

Also joining the ride is George, a young hunky cowboy and three preppy college graduates, one of whom turns out to be (gossip fans) Katy Perry’s assistant...

Saddled up, we head off on our two-hour ride over the ranch’s 1,000 acres.

We go up steep rocky paths, through shady glades dappled by the bright Californian sun, and pass by waterfalls and rock pools.

From the mountainside, we look out over the wide Pacific ocean and crane our necks to see vultures and eagles swooping overhead. All the while, Francis tells us about the area, pointing out Ronald Regan’s old ranch next door and about how the bears come down off the mountain to pick the avocados grown in the orchards.

Everything that Francis says is delivered like it is a pearl of wisdom.

He also tells me that Elvis is a mustang, a wild horse, and proves it by lifting up the horse’s mane, showing the branding that indicates it so. Elvis spent his first years of life running free in Nevada’s high desert.

After a few more hours of nature appreciation and contemplating the meaning of life, thanks to Wally’s Café and Francis’s philosophical tone, I feel a tremendous oneness with nature… Back at the ranch, it’s time to unsaddle.

Unfortunately my legs seem to have developed a oneness with Elvis, and I have to be detached from the horse by Curly, grumpy as ever.

Once dismounted, I waddle bowlegged like a toddler with a full nappy.

“Don’t worry,” says a now smiling Curly, “it happens to everyone.”