The wild donkeys of the Karpaz Peninsula – the cute, bolshy hijackers of cars. And they have an awesome sense of humour. Though I’m not sure my mum found them funny. Her pristine white trousers had survived the Avakas Gorge unscathed. But could they survive a mob of crazy donkeys?

My parents were staying for two weeks and we’d taken them away for the weekend to the remote Karpaz Peninsula in the northeast of Cyprus. It’s the only part of the island they’d never visited and I knew they’d enjoy its endless rolling hills and golden sand dunes. Mummy loves donkeys and had been keen to meet the peninsula’s legendary inhabitants. Ha!

Villagers traditionally used donkeys for transportation and agriculture. As technology developed, tractors began to replace them, though for many tractors weren’t affordable.

When the Turkish invaded the island in 1974, Greek Cypriots had to flee south, abandoning their homes – and their donkeys. Authorities later rounded up the donkeys and sent them to the Karpaz Peninsula to live in the wild.

Over the years, the wild donkeys have caused problems for villagers by eating their crops, but environmentalists succeeded in having them protected. A survey in 2003 found there to be 800-900 donkeys across 132 sq kilometres of land. Today it’s thought there are over 2000.

We set off early from Dipkarpaz east along the Karpaz panhandle. I love this drive. It’s particularly beautiful in early spring when everything is green, but it was still breathtaking in May.

We followed the road along the coast, stopping at the stunningly unspoiled Golden Beach for a paddle in the sea.

From Golden Beach we headed towards Apostolos Andreas monastery at the tip of the panhandle. The monastery is popular with pilgrims and tourists alike and so the donkeys line the roads around it, hoping for food.

The donkeys follow a strategy designed to lull the unsuspecting tourist into a false sense of security. It starts with one poor, weary-looking donkey walking down the centre of the road. Head down to ensure maximum sympathy.

‘Oh look at that poor starving donkey! We must stop and give it an apple.’

And then they’ve got you. The minute you stop and wind down the window, a gazillion other donkeys appear from nowhere and surround the car.

You’re not going anywhere until they say you can.

This first group of donkeys were vaguely civilized – by Karpaz donkey standards. Each donkey waited its turn to shove its head through the car window. And nobody spat the apples back at us. I think Mummy enjoyed this encounter, though she hadn’t expected to have a donkey’s head on her lap.

After a while, a busload of tourists pulled up behind us and the donkeys let us drive on. We stopped for juice and pancakes at the monastery, saying hello to a couple of solitary donkeys in the car park.

And then we pressed on towards the very tip of the island, tarmac road turning into dusty track.

Mummy had dressed sensibly for a day out meeting donkeys on dusty roads. She’d worn her iconic white trousers – still pristine despite an adventure in the Avakas Gorge the previous week. I suspect Mummy thought they were invincible. I think they acted as a beacon to every donkey in a five-mile radius.

Soon we were surrounded by a mob of wild donkeys. And these donkeys were … well, YOBS.

Duped by the gentle behaviour of the earlier donkeys, Mummy wound her window right down and produced a bag of apples that EVERY donkey could see.

There was no taking turns, no elegant chewing. Three donkeys shoved their heads through Mummy’s window at the same time. Right in her face.

‘Ahhh!!!’ she wailed.

I did what I always do in moments of crisis. I took photos. And laughed. I’ve met Cyprus donkeys before and knew that unless you wanted them sitting on your lap, you should only wind your window down far enough to squeeze an apple through.

Mummy battled on. Shoving apples in donkey mouths faster than Arya Stark stabbing the Night King.

A bit too fast in fact.

‘It’s puked on my trousers!!!!’ Mummy wailed.

I looked over. There was fresh donkey puke running down the inside of the car door. Beneath it was Mummy’s equally pristine white handbag. It had had a near miss.

The same couldn’t be said for her invincible white trousers. Her leg and a good part of her seat was covered in puke.

I think I might have actually weed myself laughing.

Mummy was practically sitting on my lap wailing ‘Julia! Julia! Close the window!!!’

Except I couldn’t very easily with three donkey-yobs wedged through it.

I looked at the donkeys on my side of the car. They’d decorated the window with snot, offended that I hadn’t wound it all the way down. I posted a few carrots through the small gap at the top, hoping to entice the other donkeys away from Mummy’s side of the car.

It didn’t work. Donkeys aren’t stupid.

More donkeys kept pushing their heads through Mummy’s window. She was in full-blown panic mode now and attempted to climb between the front seats into the back of the car. Herc watched as she got stuck, a big grin on his face.

We’d run out of food but the donkeys didn’t believe us. They eyed us maniacally, mouths open, dribble falling lazily on to the upholstery.

We had a face-off for a while and then I threatened decapitation by very, very slowly closing the window. And even then, they refused to budge, craning their necks as their noses were pushed upwards by the window. They didn’t withdraw until the very last second. Stubborn until the end.

Tummy aching with laughter, we continued on with our day.

But I never saw those white trousers again.

Vanquished by a mob of wild donkeys.