Alpaca Farm

With our bags repacked, we caught a cab back to the airport to pick up our Budget rental car for five days of self-guided touring in Northern Ireland. The man at the desk could see we had a fair bit of luggage, and I think he decided that the Ford Focus or similar should be a mini SUV Skoda Kamiq. Our normal response to the question about whether we want their insurance or not is that we will self-insure using our own car insurance. Not here. Coverage, please.

Carting our gear out to slot 91 we spied the silver mini SUV and were both grateful for the added space and concerned at the slightly larger bulk to be managed on the “wee” roads we would transit throughout Northern Ireland. All stuffed nicely out of sight in the back I went to the right side to let Dusty in and had my first of many reminders that we were in the land of driving on the left.

Once inside, I consciously slowed down. Adjusted seat. Checked mirrors. Did a dry run through the gear shift with my left hand. Weird. Now I took out my phone and set my cellular data to my international data SIM card that I had installed for this purpose. I searched for Hillsborough Castle on the Apple Maps system. It connected and found the place of interest. Pressing the Go button, two or three blue lines squiggled out, and I selected the one that I hoped made the most sense.

Go time. After not driving a stick for twenty years or more, I was going to do it left-handed in Northern Ireland. What could go wrong? And I was sure that each and every one of those possibilities was going through Dusty’s mind.

Clutch in. Turn key. Car starts. First gear. Ease out clutch. And we are rolling. Seemed to be geared a little high. Then I realized that I had just started out in third gear on a five-speed.

As Dusty reminded me what the route was, I tried to get the feel of the car and our position on the road from a different vantage point. While taking a looping exit from the expressway, I found that there were three more inches on the left side than I had allowed for, causing my left rear wheel to jump the curb. Dusty let me know that the left side was her side of the car and asked me to please stay away from causing any damage to her or the car.

After driving past the entrance to the castle once, we looped back to find that the grand gate at the front entrance was for royalty and visitors of high station. Tourists were asked to please go around to the parking area in the back of the walled garden. Just down to the left through this area and under that until you get to the expressway and take the second exit to the left. You can’t miss it.

After nearly making use of my newly purchased insurance by mistaking first gear for reverse about four feet from a new Mercedes' door, I was out to the left. And I missed it. After about a mile, I came to a convenience store and parked to try and find the proper entrance on my GPS. The cell coverage was poor. The data was loading slowly, and Dusty was starting to fume. I went inside to ask if someone could mark it on the phone, and I would be on my way.

A kind lady made her purchase of bread and wine and offered to help. She said she couldn’t really see the right way on my phone without her glasses as they were at home. She mentioned it was really very simple and once on the expressway, the signage was clear. She instructed me to just follow her to where she would turn right, and I would go left onto the expressway.

I smiled and put myself into grateful Amazing Race mode (not for the last time) and followed her out to the parking lot. By the time I had backed out of the parking space (now knowing how to get into reverse), she had pulled her black BMW onto the road and was waiting for me. True to her word, it was about a half mile with one or two turns. When she got out of her car at a yield sign to indicate this was where we would part ways.

In no time we were down the expressway about a half mile and saw the sign for the castle. Up and around to the parking lot and, Bob’s your uncle, there we were.

After paying to support the upkeep of the grounds we were granted access to the walled garden which would lead us by pathway through the 109-acre grounds of the castle and into the castle itself.

The walled gardens were, of course, a classic English garden with beauty, function, and geometric excellence. The flowers and fountain were in line just so. There were tiny fruiting apples, figs, and more that wouldn’t be ready for months, as well as artichokes standing proud on tall stalks.

After strolling and appreciating the literal royal garden, we found a small opening in the high wall that made me feel like Peter Rabbit sneaking out into Sherwood Forest (I know I was mixing stories, but it felt so storybook to me). We meandered up and down the paths past blooming shrubs until we finally saw a small pond with the castle revealing itself on the hill behind.

A quick glance at my heart-monitoring Apple Watch told me that if we didn’t hurry along, we wouldn’t make our noon tour of the castle on yon hilltop. We were late, we were late for a very important date… (yes, another British literary reference). Following the map we had received at the entrance, we made our way to the front entrance (where we had tried to enter a couple of hours earlier) and joined our tour group just before the clock in the tower across the way tolled twelve times. Then another couple came up a minute or two later, making me feel less tardy.

Our hosts welcomed us and informed us that there were to be no photographs taken inside the royal residence, so I tucked my camera under my arm and focused on the tour.

Hillsborough Castle is something you can Google if you want to know facts and figures. My experience was a personal one of feeling the generations who had come and gone through these rooms. The Presidents and celebrities who had been seated where I was and sipped champagne or signed weighty documents. Grand halls, somber paintings of old monarchs, and even a pair of thrones at the end of a long narrow ballroom reinforced the gravitas of the structure.

After our hour or so on our escorted visit, we spent a while going through the private photo gallery adjacent to the castle before a leisurely return via the gardens to our car. Of course, our return allowed a different path through a small grotto of less formal foliage to round out our experience.

Once in the car, I plugged the location of the nearest mega store into my phone and hoped for no drama on the way. Sainsbury’s was the perfect fit for distance and size.

We covered the 2.9 miles with a minimum of drama and were soon pushing a cart through something the size and scope of a Super Walmart. After calibrating our brains to British pounds and kilograms, we got the idea of what was worth it and what was not.

We spent more than an hour soaking in the local “normal”. Travel has a way of adjusting your reference for just what that is. A little salad bag and veggies, some discounted ground beef and caramelized onion burgers, and Indian curried chicken chunks were our proteins. Cheese, crackers, fruit, and wine had happy hour covered. A half kilo of porridge oats guaranteed breakfast for at least the next couple of days. Bread, Irish butter, and jam, and we were out the door for under 50 British pounds.

Plugging Mourne Alpaca Farm https://www.mournealpacas.com into the phone gave us the quickest route to our sanctuary for the next two nights. The drive took us into the countryside with narrow winding roads along hedgerows, ancient stone walls, and narrow bridges. The couple of little villages we passed through only added to the feeling of being in a storybook.

As the GPS told us we had arrived, we found ourselves at an open gate in front of a two-story farmhouse with a chimney at each end. The quaint old home had been freshly painted white with black trim. Dusty was sure it must be a bit further on, so I went the few yards to the closed gate ahead on the left to see a much newer home that I was certain belonged to our new landlords.

Performing a nifty three- or four-point turn, I showed off my newly acquired skills in left-handed manual shifting without putting us into a ditch.

Once parked between the house and the storage building, I walked across to the back wall to see a horse hauler parked near the metal structure that appeared to be the work center of the farm. A newer metal building with a twenty-foot-wide roll-up door was raised about halfway, where a fully furred alpaca was being led inside as another without its full wool coat was walking out. I called out to see if Michelle was around, and my request was relayed inside.

She came out with her hair pulled back and her dark blue jacket accentuating the light-colored fibers from the alpaca shearing as if she had been hugging a hundred cats. She apologized for not meeting us as she normally would, but three warm, dry days in a row in the spring put the whole local alpaca shearing machine into motion. Since they had a hobby that had turned into a business, their farm had become the meeting point for small-scale and pet-raising alpaca owners. This was the busiest day of the year, and she gave me the key for the back door (where friends and family came in) and said to help ourselves to the bread, butter, and milk in the refrigerator. A wonderful offer, but we had just come from the store and had all of that and more.

She went back to managing the alpaca shearing, and we went about carting our luggage and groceries inside. The kitchen and laundry were what you saw on entry. A front-loading washer and folding rack for drying would be put to use before we left in a couple of days. Through the door was a big dining table on the right and a living room with a sofa and TV on the left. By the stairway was a framed invitation and blessing for visitors, noting the 120 years the little farmhouse had stood there and the love that had been showered on it by our hosts, Michelle and Stephen. Upstairs were three bedrooms and a bathroom for the two of us. Bedding and decorations were both celebrating alpacas and made from alpaca wool. The magical properties of which make it great for wearing and sleeping on.

After getting settled in, we went back out to the wall to watch the real life that was going on in front of us. Michelle made it clear that the crew that was shearing and the regulations surrounding the industry prohibited me from actually taking photographs up close as the work was being done. I was able to visit with a family that had brought their three pet alpacas. The owner said his mother-in-law had specifically selected the black male for them. Although he had doubts about the temperament of the animal, he did not veto her selection. Once he got them from Peru to Northern Ireland, he named the bunch after South American drug lords due, in large part, to the wild behavior of the black male. There is a syndrome among llamas and alpacas that seems to afflict this beautiful animal… Berserk llama syndrome (usually shortened to BLS), aberrant behavior syndrome, or berserk male syndrome (as it is more pronounced in males) is a psychological condition experienced by human-raised camelids, particularly llamas and alpacas, that can cause them to exhibit dangerously aggressive behavior toward humans.

From a distance, I could see the well-practiced dance between the animals and the workers to remove the wool that would overheat the alpacas if left too long. Of course, the precious wool would eventually be processed into yarn and later clothing of wonderful softness and beauty. The alpaca was slowly led into the large building and stood against a large table that was rectangular with a large notch out of one of the long sides as the table sat on its edge. The alpaca was leaned firmly against the table and as the table was laid flat, the front and rear legs were tied together to avoid injury to the animal or workers. A quick buzz up and around the body and parts of the neck and legs, and they were up and away, much cooler for their inconvenience. The parts around the middle come off in one thick blanket and are the most prized fibers. The rest is not wasted but may end up as filling in premium duvets or some other less elevated item. Looking closely at the fleece, you can see little bundles of wool that look like the tufts in a really fluffy ‘70s shag rug. These are called “packets”. Within each of these are hundreds of fibers as thin as cobwebs, and these make the wool extremely soft and a great insulator.

By the end of the day, there were over a hundred alpacas processed this way and bushels and bags of wool to attest to the fact. Michelle apologized again for neglecting her host duties, but it was clear that this level of operation required her full attention for the day. She said she had seen my blog and wanted to share a photographer’s view of the farm the next morning.

Dusty and I took a long stroll down the narrow road we had driven on. The rolling hills, green from rain, and cows out in the pasture could have been from any time in Irish history. The smells and sounds told our bodies that we were in the country now, and the stress level from the travel and troubles began to fall away. A walk that was good for the body and good for the soul.

After a good night's rest under an alpaca duvet and a hot oat porridge breakfast, Michelle was at the back door asking if I wanted to get a shot of her husband, Stephen, mowing down the tall grass in the back field with his beloved tractor (which he had given to Michelle as a Christmas present). Of course, I wanted real pictures of "life on the alpaca farm."

I asked Dusty if she wanted to come along, and after a bit, she had her shoes on. We headed past the twenty or so alpacas near the house, out through the gate to the upper field, only to see that Stephen had mowed one half of the two-acre field in the time it took us to get up there.

Michelle was explaining that the alpacas preferred their diet to be just right. Not too dry. Not too wet. Hay is too dry, and grass that is immediately baled is too wet. Haylage is mowed, then turned the next day, and then baled the next.

The greens of the Northern Ireland countryside and the smell of the newly mown field created a multi-sensory experience that goes way beyond “virtual”. This was real in every sense of the word.

Soon, Stephen was done mowing, and he stopped to lean on the fence post as if he were chatting with a neighbor. A bit about himself and Michelle: both highly educated professionals of the first order who had taken on alpacas as a hobby that just ballooned into so much more. A story about the tractor design by Harry Ferguson and the Ford patent sharing that started with a handshake and ended in court when Ford descendants stopped paying royalties.

Michelle showed us around the rest of the animals with attention to a newborn and a pregnant mother soon to give birth. One of the alpacas was a young male with nice wool, but he had a crooked left hind leg. If not for that crooked leg, he may have enjoyed being a father many times over. Unfortunately, that defect could be genetic, and they don’t want to pass that along, so he would not be here for much longer. From there, she walked us into the front of the metal building where we saw all the work done the day before. Inside, there were huge bags of premium fleeces from top alpacas waiting to go for processing. Each identified so she could say which animal it came from and which were of the best quality. Larger bins had mixed cuttings from the neck or legs that would not satisfy the needs of serious yarn production, but still had significant value for other products.

Next, to her classroom/workshop at the back of the building, we saw the finished skeins of yarn and some samples of knitted products. She was quite modest about her own skills, but the sample blanket she pulled out suggested more than a little skill. It was made of 10”x10” squares of different patterns and colors with familiar and unique designs, from classic Irish cable knits to intricate mixed-colored designs large enough to cover a small bed.

Having toured the farm and taken in the sights, we dared ourselves to take a short drive to Windy Gap for a view of the countryside. It wasn’t far. The GPS had us on the right track when it said to turn on what looked like a driveway to the left, so we passed it. The driveway was, in fact, the road. I did a quick shuffling turn on the narrow road to backtrack the 50 meters, only to find myself, by habit, in the right lane. This was the wrong lane at the wrong time as the rare traffic on the road expressed their displeasure with a long handrest on the horn. I leapt back to the left side and then went on up the hill from the overlook and wandered up the hill on foot.

The view was nice, but all the views were nice. I constantly found myself noticing the change in lighting changing how things looked. A spotlight through the clouds. Grey covering distant hilltops. Brilliant blue skies with puffy white clouds. All this in a matter of an hour or so.

We made it safely back to our 120-year-old farmhouse to have some wine during happy hour followed by dinner. It wasn’t until after 9:30 that the day was drawing to an end.

I stood in the road next to an old gate, watching the sun go down behind a house across the fields, setting the sky on fire. After it grew dark and the lights came on, it reminded me of a Thomas Kinkade painting. The camera didn’t capture it, but that's what I saw.

After another alpaca fluff-covered night, we broke our fast with porridge oats and cooked up leftover peppers and mushrooms to create a meal at our next stop. We packed that and more into our makeshift ice chest, packed it in the car, and hit the road to The Giant’s Causeway.

MORE ALPACA PICTURES!