Faced with another bleak British winter I had come to Southern California to photosynthesise some vitamin D. Late October is without question the best time to be here. The tourist season is all but over so the island is devoid of day-trippers and wedding parties. The Mediterranean climate makes for sublime Indian summer days, sun-cuddled and gusty.

Catalina is one of eight channel islands located off the Californian coast. It is only an hour’s ferry ride (or 10 minutes by helicopter if you’re being bling) from Long Beach, but a million miles from mainland America's rampant autophilia. Stringent conservation policy means you have to wait 10 years or donate a kidney to own a car here, depending on who you ask. Consequently the few vehicles on the island tend to be retro classics lending the place a lovely kind of other-timeliness. Everyone else drives golf carts. Luckily I have Fred and one of the island’s few jeeps to myself for an afternoon’s exploring so we start in the north where the place names start out promisingly rugged, Eagle Rock, Shark Rock and so on. Further south we come to the slightly less muscular Hen Rock and Pin Rock. I half-expect to turn a corner and hit Rock Rock. Anyway you get the picture, the basic topography is, well, rocky. Sturdy shoes are a must I realise too late. Fred gleefully fills me with tales of smuggling and Russian otter hunters as we trundle around the interior.

The few people we pass on the way are local volunteers mending roads, fixing fences. Catalina’s inhabitants are all well-educated about it’s history and ecology. The infrastructure is maintained by the pride and passion of its people, many of whom work for the conservancy.

Fred seems to know everyone, including the clump of bison we find huffling around on a hilltop. Not native to the island they are the grandchildren of filmstars first brought here to shoot The Vanishing American in 1924. The production ran out of money and left its bovine performers behind. We decide to depart when one of them raises its tail. “Means either they’re going to make a charge or a discharge,” says Fred. “And trust me, we really don’t want to be around to find out which”.

Back in the main town of Avalon I noodle around the shops at the lazy pace this place invites. A Poe of crows squawks its commentary as I take in the kitty-corner beach shacks and faded Mediterranean vibe. Wildlife hums all around punctuated by the occasional low grumble of a golf cart. It is a welcome contrast to the hectic symphony of LA’s horns. For all the city’s glamour it is a far from relaxing place to perambulate. Pedestrians are rendered highly conspicuous by their rarity in the car capital of America so you will at least be noticed.

Driving in LA is not for the faint of heart but the broad scattered sprawl makes it by far the easiest way to get around. It took me some time to tackle the free-for-all freeways from the beaches to downtown LA, passing small oil derricks nodding their approval and gluey tarmac that ripples in the haze. On the mainland the sheer scale of the roads suggest that humans are an afterthought but in Catalina it is definitely four wheels bad, two feet good.

The whole of Avalon can be covered on foot in an hour. I delight in the absence of chain stores and restaurants (no MacDonalds here). Most businesses, it seems, are owned by affable locals. My particular favourite is Afishinados, a family-run fish art emporium, of course. That evening, as I stroll to the casino accompanied by a lovely shsshing sea score, I recognise some of the proprietors from earlier on and they are keen to know how I’m enjoying my stay.

Catalina’s Casino is the island’s most famous building. There’s no gambling here, casino is the literal translation of ‘meeting place’. Commissioned by chewing gum magnate William Wrigley Junior in 1928 it houses the island’s museum and a spectacular art deco cinema. Sitting in the lamplit lobby I absorb a little of the island’s old-school glamour. Huge Hollywood names like Bela Legosi, Buster Keaton and Clark Gable filmed on the island. Sets were built here for Mutiny on the Bounty and Marilyn Monroe is said to have lived here in her youth. Madonna and Robbie Williams have both holidayed here to escape the whole LA performance.

I’m feeling a bit VIP myself as I am almost alone in the opulent auditorium. There is barely a whisper from the tiny audience. Paradise indeed to find a cinema with no talkers, just a few couples out for date night. One comprehensively average romcom later I decide I can justify being horizontal til lunchtime the next day if I plan an afternoon of adventure, beginning with some cheap and cheerful face filling by the beach.

Having always thought a corn dog was some kind of herbivore’s alternative to the hot dog I’m alarmed to discover it’s more like a deep-fried coronary on a stick. It’s dirty-good but criminal to consume battered sausage on an island with an abundance of fresh fish. I vow to make up for it at dinner with a spiny lobster and Californian white at my elegant hotel restaurant, M that evening. For now, I’m due my first dose of adrenalin – eco ziplining. To the uninitiated this is the practice of jumping off very high platforms with only a harness and some wire between you and an equally steep doctor’s bill. After the safety demonstration from a comical duo nicknamed Jedi and the Duck we take a minibus up to the first of four wooden stages 600 feet above the town. I'm not quite clear what is eco about this other than that the pair's patter is peppered with environmental information but the speed of descent rather prohibits birdwatching. A be-bebumbagged pensioner locks his harness onto the taught wire and happily leaps into the air. Now I'll look really bad if I falter, so I quickly follow. Thought being the enemy of action.

I speed down the valley, warm wind on my skin, flying through the trees like a sort of recumbent superhero. Back on the beach I decide a preliminary snorkel is in order to acclimatise before the kayak trip the next day. I don’t get very far, hypnotised as I am by the swaying forests of giant kelp, which can grow up to half a metre in 24 hours. For the second time that day I feel like I’m flying. All the tension seeps from my limbs and, when I emerge an hour later, I can’t shift my grin.

The purity of the sea leaves me feeling healthy enough for the judicious application of cocktails. The Marlin Bar is first to catch my eye with it's flickflacking saloon swing doors. I’m quickly absorbed into a drinking game with the Orange County Fire Department who are here on a fishing trip. "If it was good enough sport for Winston Churchill, then it's good enough for me," winks one of their number. Once my blood has been comprehensively replaced with alcohol I weave gently down the road to my bison-sized jacuzzi bath and harbour-side view.

I spend an hour each morning wandering the island, enchanted with the industrious hummingbirds – the only fast-moving things here. There’s a hollow tink-tanking of oxygen bottles and thwap of fins from early-rising divers at the casino meeting point. They clamber eagerly down concrete steps into the water to spot everything from soupfin sharks to bat rays. Feeling the pull of the sea I seek out my kayak buddy Danny. Like many islanders he has two jobs, the second being local artist/van muralist. We paddle out to Frog Rock then snorkel back towing our canoes with our toes. The water is rich with tangerine Garibaldi fish flirting with the seaweed. Danny hands me a live sea urchin, its shiny black spines clack gently together like some alien percussion instrument. I'm starting to see why Catalina is considered to be one of the world's ten best dive sites.

Outdoorsy sorts will get the most out of the island but if all you want is a beachside book-and-cocktail laze then you can find your place here too. There are plenty of spa options so I decide to indulge in a little post-snorkel pamper. The masseuse administers a peppermint steam massage so thorough I swear even my liver felt more relaxed by the time she was done.

Before arriving on the island I wondered if I would find enough to occupy five days but I feel like I have barely begun exploring when it's time to leave. I have one final treat in store before I board the ferry. Catalina Adventure Tours has lent me their best dolphin-spotter, Scott, for a two-hour scout around the channel. We jump into his launch and speed off into the glittering horizon. We soon stumble upon some sealions sunning themselves on a concrete buoy. Throaty barks behind me draw my attention to another group that appear to be waving, they are, in fact, ‘finning’. They apparently need to raise their fins out of the water to dry off occasionally to stop them catching cold. We glimpse a bellyflopping dolphin and race to catch up with the pod. They keep pace with the boat, just within flipper’s reach. “I want your job,” I say to Scott. “Most people do,” he grins. On the jetty, reluctant to return to hustle of the mainland, there’s a sense of complicity among the passengers. Aboard the ferry I am transfixed by the dissolving island with all her charming eco-centricities. No-one knows for sure why the snakes are losing their rattle here, some speculate it is the lack of natural predators. Whatever the reason, I think if I stayed on this lovely hunk of rock long enough I'd probably lose my rattle too.

Words + photography: Jenni Doggett
(Humming bird by Paul Fenwick)