He was perfectly willing to traverse the rugged hills and valleys of Inishowen Peninsula in County Donegal with me, and together we stood on the cliff-top, admiring the view of Five Fingers Strand.
He also happened to be an alpaca named Barney.
We were in County Donegal on a girls’ trip for Harriet’s 30th birthday, a weekend I had expected to be debauched and hedonistic in nature, marked by late-night clubbing and day-long hangovers.
But instead of cocktail-fuelled chaos, dancefloor dramatics, and questionable life choices, I found myself wandering over windswept hills, leading (or rather, being led by) an alpaca.
The Wild Alpaca Way was established in 2019 by John McGonagle, a Donegal local and a man fiercely proud of the rugged beauty of his county. Rather than altering the land, John chose to establish a farm where alpacas could thrive in the countryside, and today, along with his sons, he offers guided alpaca walks daily with a herd of around 50 alpacas.
I asked John what the most rewarding part of running Wild Alpaca Way is.
"Meeting nice people from all over the world," he said, "people from all backgrounds and walks of life. My boys enjoy working this job with me."
I don’t know how Michelle found out about this alpaca experience, but I’m glad she did — it was silly, delightful, and the perfect way to celebrate our friend’s birthday.
As we walked towards the farm, dozens of woolly heads turned in our direction, their big, dark eyes watching us with varying levels of interest. Over the course of the hour-long walk, I learned that each alpaca had his own distinct personality — some exuded quiet elegance, others gave me the side-eye as if assessing my worth, and a few barely acknowledged my existence at all.
Mojo was a shy creature with a permanently surprised expression and a tendency to duck his head bashfully. Neil was quite interested in eating my coat buttons but was on the whole, fairly good-natured, while Bounce was a liability, stubbornly digging in his heels when he felt the wind was too high or the hill too steep.
"Badger and Tommy are original, they’re real characters," added John.
Barney was pleasant and (mostly) co-operative, rubbing his face on my fluffy brown coat (perhaps he thought I was one of them) and patiently waiting for his turn when it came to feeding the alpacas at the end of the hike.
Walking Barney through the hills of Donegal was a strangely meditative experience. His slow, steady pace ensured that I properly took in the beauty of my surroundings in a way that other activities we had been debating (like go-karting or mountainbiking) would have been unlikely to provide.
At times I felt rather absurd— as if I was taking a royal creature on a grand tour of his domain. At other times, it felt like I was at the mercy of a being that had long ago decided it was superior to me. Where Barney wanted to go, I went. When Barney stopped, I stopped. There was absolutely no negotiation, save for a few firm pats on his fluffy behind.
As we walked, I learned a bit about alpacas. I noticed in particular their strong herd instinct — if one decided to stop, the others followed suit, gazing at us with mute implacability. If however, you could tempt one or two to start moving, the whole herd would happily follow suit.
I also learned that alpacas communicate by humming, some in content murmurs, others in a more strident style when it came to feeding time. John also listed off some other facts for me: "Alpacas have no upper teeth, and they’re pregnant for 11.5 months at a time."
I didn’t realise how fastidious alpacas were; "They all go to the toilet in the one place in the field, they’re very clean," adds John. Apparently, alpacas also spit, usually in times of distress or aggression — although we didn’t witness this, thankfully.
I don’t quite know what I expected from Donegal — some rolling hills, muddy farmland, perhaps a few quaint villages with thatched cottages, and relentless rain — but the reality far surpassed my vague expectations. As my friends and I drove further into Donegal, the landscape shifted and changed, becoming wilder and more rugged with each passing kilometre.
At times, I felt like I was driving through Central Otago — I half expected to see abandoned stone cottages or the skeletal remains of old mining equipment. Placid hills gave way to craggy hills and steep gorges, with hazy mountains rising in the distance.
Donegal is sometimes referred to as the "forgotten county" because it so often gets overlooked in national matters. Then there’s the joke that Donegal is so remote it’s barely part of Ireland, given that it’s geographically cut off from the rest of the Republic due to its location north of Northern Ireland — in fact, it’s the only county in Ulster that isn’t in Northern Ireland.
Donegal is home to some of the strongest Gaeltacht areas, regions in Ireland where the Irish language (Gaeilge) is still spoken as a community’s primary language, and it was beautiful to see road signs in Irish, and to hear the language spoken in shops and pubs.
In addition to walking with alpacas, my friends and I also traced part of the raw coastline, driving out to Malin Head, the most northerly point of mainland Ireland. We stood on the rocks, battling the strong Atlantic gales, and looking down upon the white-stone "Eire 80" sign, a relic from World War 2 that let Allied pilots know they were entering neutral airspace.
The girls and I also visited the ominously-named Murder Hole Beach (officially known as Boyeeghter Bay). Murder Hole was, in a word, breathtaking. Tucked away on the Rosguill Peninsula, the beach is surrounded by dramatic cliffs, hidden caves, and jagged rock formations. We had the beach all to ourselves. We sat on the cliff’s edge and watched the waves crash violently on the shore.
In hindsight, I think what made this weekend feel so special was that it was so calm and simple. Instead of a typical wild girls’ weekend with tequila shots and stolen traffic tones, we experienced a different kind of fun in Donegal — one that involved alpacas and simply soaking in the local scenery.
It was a weekend of silliness and joy, and one I won’t easily forget.
• Jean Balchin is an ODT columnist who has started a new life in Edinburgh.
