ABOVE: A view of sunny Coachella

For me, a holiday should have an element of escapism and a good sprinkling of hedonism, all mixed in with heavy doses of sunshine. And if the books, records and films are to go by, then all of the above are found in California. I wanted in. Immediately. I didn’t have long to wait.

Palm Springs is a 107-mile (one hour and 45 minutes) drive from downtown LA and harbours an oasis of desert resorts, a history steeped in ‘Spring Break’ culture and the US’s largest concentration of mid-century modern architecture – all glass panes and linear panels. It’s also home to Coachella, the festival that’s become a bastion of cool over the last few years thanks to its notable musical line-ups and high-end celebrity quota. It’s one of a handful of places where fashion trends are born (last year, it was cat eye sunglasses and headscarves reeking of insouciant Fifties nostalgia). It’s grown up and effortlessly chic – the festival experience we all deserve. It’s also aeons away from the mud-encrusted, waterlogged affairs to which Brits are accustomed.

Idyllic weather, a relaxed crowd and elegant accommodation make it utterly blissful from start to finish. The clientele tend to stay in local hotels (Coachella hotel pool parties are legendary) or, as we did, in luxury Safari Tents that come with golf carts (and drivers, sadly, before you get excited) to whizz you backstage. VIP festival tickets are part of the Safari Tent package, as is much-needed air conditioning and a mini-fridge that it seemed rude not to fill with $10 litre bottles of Vodka Of The Gods (which one bleary-eyed morning was tragically mistaken for water).

As the desert heat clambered to over 30°C, I retreated to the glistening turquoise pool, a mere 10 seconds from my tent, for a bathe and cocktail before meeting a friend for sushi – which is probably the most Californian sentence I’ll ever write. If 14-year-old Anita, sneaking through fire exits into local gigs could see me now, it would blow her mind. It’s a feeling that resurfaces that evening looking out over an ocean of lighters and voices singing in unison to Pulp’s Common People with a silky breeze carving through the navy sky… It’s the execution that makes Coachella so faultless. The stages are close together, and yet a passing wind doesn’t render your favourite band inaudible. You scan in and out of checkpoints with hi-tech wristbands – they’re Facebook integrated making it easy to share your adventures with your friends sat weeping in Brixton.

Later I headed to the nearby Ace Hotel for a pool party, then on the second night we partied backstage in the company of Rihanna and Katy Perry, before being whisked in our golf buggies back to our air-conditioned tents. The following day involved an impromptu trip to Desert Hills Premium Outlets which turned out to be an Aladdin’s cave of prêt-à-porter. I left with Chanel wedges and a Saint Laurent necklace which, without sounding too shallow, might just have changed my life.

When Coachella ambled to a close, we headed towards the beachfront of Santa Monica in Western LA. After the enveloping heat of Palm Springs, the sea breeze was a welcome friend, as was our spacious suite at the Hotel Shangri- La – a slice of Art Deco brilliance, all pastel shades and retro elegance.

Escape Routes: Two luxury holidays in LA