Vinyl Vineyards Is What California Used to Feel Like

There are places you stay at and there are places you remember. Vinyl Vineyards falls squarely in the latter—the kind of stay that settles into your bones like a good song. Tucked into the hills outside Paso Robles, this place isn’t just dog-friendly, off-grid, or charming in that rust-dusted California way—it’s something rarer. It’s honest.

Buster Bigsley

We pulled in just before golden hour, our boots dusty and Buster's tail wagging with anticipation. Our home for the next few nights: the Johnny Cash Airstream—just the right amount of outlaw edge. It sat perched at the back of the campground with a view of the surrounding vineyards and hills, its interior wrapped in warm wood tones—like the inside of a guitar case. There was a copy of "At Folsom Prison" on vinyl waiting by the record player, and we spun it immediately.

That night, we were invited up to the owners' house for a BBQ. Jeff and Dina greeted us like old friends, handing out cold refreshing glasses of wine and platters of grilled tri-tip like it was a regular Tuesday thing. The smell of oak wood smoke drifted through the air while the sun dropped behind the hills and the 4th of July fireworks kicked off. We ate, laughed, swapped stories with their friends, and watched all the kids play with the alpacas outside.

The next night, they fired up the pizza oven for the whole campground. Homemade dough, every topping imaginable, and the kind of hospitality that makes you forget how rare it is. Kids and dogs ran through the campground while the adults lingered by the fire pit. When the s'mores came out, everyone settled in for another round of connection. It didn’t feel like a campground; it felt like a neighborhood you wish you lived in.

The days were slow in the best way. We wandered out to visit the alpacas (yes, actual alpacas), followed by a private tour of the land with Dina. She showed us the different vineyards, walking trails, different places to stay on their land, and told us how they've intentionally built Vinyl Vineyards one step at a time. At one point, a small group of deer emerged from the hillside and walked alongside us between the vines. No hurry. No noise. Just a quiet rhythm.

We ventured into Paso Robles, too, of course—a town that manages to be both sleepy and sophisticated. We stopped into a few tucked-away breweries and made our way north to San Miguel, where the Jesse James bar serves cold drinks and tall tales. There, we met a couple of last-generation cowboys who spun rodeo stories so vivid you could almost smell the arena dust.

One afternoon, we stumbled across an old cemetery north of town. The kind with leaning headstones and wind that whistles through the dry grass. Haunted? Maybe. But more than anything, it felt like time had taken its boots off and decided to rest there.

Each morning began with an outdoor shower overlooking the hills. There’s something about letting the steam rise while the sun comes up over a quiet vineyard that resets you in all the right ways. Our dog trotted freely, always a few paces ahead, ears perked and tail high. He made just as many friends as we did.

Vinyl Vineyards isn’t trying to be anything it's not. There are no welcome mimosas, no curated playlists, no branded robes. But what it does offer is worth far more: sincerity, space, connection, and the kind of hospitality that doesn’t feel like a transaction.

If you're headed to Paso Robles and you want something unpolished, a little wild, and entirely memorable—this is it. Bring your boots. Bring your dog. And bring your stories—because chances are, you'll leave with a few more.