Domingueros in Andorra
Wedged between Spain and France, in the high mountains of the Pyrenees, the Principality of Andorra is considered something of a tax haven, known for its cheap fuel, alcohol, cigarettes and duty-free perfume. Although Andorra uses the Euro and abides by certain EU trade rules, it is not technically part of the Eurozone, which means that, like Monaco, they are at liberty to set their own tax rates and privacy laws. With such generous tax laws, it's no surprise that only 35% of the population of Andorra is made up of what could be considered as locals.
Andorra might lack arable farmable land (the entire country is just 468 square kilometres), but it manages to produce a lot of its own tobacco. Apparently, the quality and strength of the tobacco is so great that Andorra has long-struggled with a tradition of cigarette smuggling. (My guess is that geographical isolation and cheap prices has something to do with it.) During the Second World War, in particular, smugglers would cross the mountainous terrain of Andorra to trade tobacco with Spain or France, swapping smokes for much sough-after black-market items.
Despite having a hand in the smuggling trade, Andorra remained neutral during the Second World War — or so they believed. Although Andorra was officially sided against Germany in the First World War, they were thought by many to have ‘lacked influence’ during the conflict. For this reason, the Principality of Andorra was overlooked in the Treaty of Versailles and the signing of an official armistice with Germany. It wasn’t until 1958 that Andorra rectified the blunder, declaring peace with Germany, after officially ‘being at war’ for 44 years.
It's hard to imagine tobacco farms dotted between snow-capped mountains and snaking rivers but the country of Andorra isn't all ski slopes and hiking trails. In fact, the capital city of Andorra is something of a shopping metropolis, crowded with high-rises, shopping malls, restaurants and tobacco sellers. Thankfully, much of the development in Andorra is confined to the valleys, keeping the pristine Pyrenees free from commerce.
With little room for luxury purchases in our White Wonder Wagon, we get in touch with Miguel, who agrees to escort us to the summits of some of the most beautiful peaks in Andorra. We're the first to admit that, when it comes to conquering peaks over 2000 metres, we're complete domingueros. We don't have trekking poles. We're decked out head-to-toe in non-wicking-fibres. And we've only packed one micro-fibre towel. Despite our hiking faux pas, Miguel immediately puts us at ease with his jokes and we're pleased to have his company – if only to ensure we are on our best behaviour, when the going gets tough.
dominguero noun [do-min-gue-ro]
One who drives slowly (on a Sunday) for leisure or sightseeing.
An inexperienced hiker who tackles summits in sandals, without food, water, trekking poles or a map.
Measuring in at 2806 metres, Pic de Cataperdis is considered something of a warm-up hike to gauge our fitness levels. Although today's elevation gain is only around 400 metres, the screed slope leading up to the summit is a killer on the calves, and I'm feeling defeated in no time. Grey clouds are forming overhead and the distant rumble of thunder can be heard rolling through the valley beyond. Miguel kindly lets us know that, should rain, hail or lightning develop, we'll be able to duck down on the side of the mountain, placing our hands on our heads to shelter ourselves until the storm passes. Naturally, we're not keen to stick around on the summit long enough to entertain this scenario. Normally this loop takes around 3-4 hours but with the threat of one of Andorra's famous summer storms on the horizon, we slide down the gravelly slope to the ski hut below in record time, enjoying a brief lunch in the sun, before the mist rolls in and the heavens open up, treating us to the storm to end all storms. By this time, we're snugly within the confines of our car, hail hammering deafeningly on the roof, as we make our way to the pub for a cold celebratory beer.
We reach our hut, in the heart of the Sorteny Valley Nature Park at around 7 pm, just as the boom gates open up for the night and hikers from all over the Pyrenees roll in for a hot meal. Hot water in the huts runs out fast and we soon discover that to delay a shower is to risk certainty of an ice bath before bed. Dressed in clean clothes, we shuffle to our table, where we are treated to a hearty three-course meal.
Feeling a little bit more human with a piece of apple cake in our bellies, we go for a short walk through the valley by our hut, in order to watch the sunset and cheer on the Ultra Trail runners as they plod on to their next refreshment point. The most difficult Ultra Trail course is 233 km long, with 20 0000 metres of elevation gain and 20 0000 metres of elevation loss. After a bit of googling, we discover that participants can nominate a completion time between 26 hours and 94 hours, depending on their level of fitness (read: craziness). The craziest of the lot opt to complete the trail in 26 hours, by the light of the moon. It is these loonies that we hear trudging past our hut well into the night, to the claps and cheers of their families. Suffice to say, we don't get a lot of sleep. Thankfully, we have a bunk room to ourselves, with only Miguel for company.
We wake on the second day to blue skies, fresh air and the warmth of the first morning light on our backs. In order to avoid the late afternoon storms, we start our early, making the most of the beautiful morning ahead of us. Today's walk begins with a stroll through the picturesque Rialb Valley. Out of all the walks we complete in Andorra, this stretch of valley is by far my favourite leg. The sparkling river that flows through the valley is lined with wildflowers – from alpine rose (rhododendron), gentian and arnica – to buttercups, wild raspberries and blueberries. There are horses and goats grazing in the meadows, eagles circling lazily above, with the the sound of cowbells echoing across the flower-filled pastures.
The ascent to Pic de Besali (2638 m) is gradual and rocky, with tufts of yellowing grass scattered between patches of icy snow. Sheep laze in the sun, bells clanging, drinking the snow run-off, in order to stay cool. The last 15 minutes is a rocky scramble to the top. There are few markers on the trails so we're obliged to take it slow, watching carefully where Miguel places his feet. We reach the summit, where we sit, catching our breath, watching bearded vultures glide through the valley as we eat our packed lunches.
Though the bearded vulture is still considered threatened, due to hunting, habitat decline and lack of food, these beautiful Old World birds of prey have been successfully reintroduced to the Spanish Pyrenees, with populations now spreading as far as the Italian, French and Swiss Alps. I've developed a strange love for these beautiful beasts and could sit and watch them for hours. Did you know that the bearded vulture is the only known animal in the world to eat a diet consisting almost exclusively of bone?
We complete the circuit in 6 and a bit hours, making it back to the hut at around 3 pm, just in time for the 4 pm thunderstorm. Like clockwork, the thunder rumbles in, followed by the lightning. The rain starts up, scattering a crunchy layer of hail onto the crest of Pic de Estanyó in the distance.
At 2915 metres, Pic de Estanyó is the second highest peak in Andorra – and tomorrow's conquest. Thankfully, the elevation gain for the day is an achievable 1000 metres (our hut – and starting point – rests at 1900 metres). As Miguel says, those who rise early are helped by god. We reach Lake Estany at 9am, in time to watch the sun creep over the peak ahead of us, bathing the lake in early morning light. It's a beautiful sight.
The zig-zagging goat track to the summit is narrow and constant, with patches of crunchy hail scattered across the rocks. We reach the peak at 11am and have a bite of lunch before surveying the weather situation. From Pic de Estanyó, we can peer over the border to the French Pyrenees. Miguel explains to us that the peaks bordering France act as a pocket, collecting the clouds and mist. You can physically see the borders, just by following the trail of cloud with your eyes. It's a meteorological phenomenon that I don't quite understand.
The afternoon storm clouds are rolling in so we decide that it is best to forgo the crest line and extended loop. We don't want to risk walking the crest, exposed to the weather, should lightning and thunder develop. As we begin our descent, we hear a crunch crunch crunch echoing through the valley. Looking down, we see a herd of chamois crossing a large patch of snow, babies in tow. We can't get over how fast they skip down the slopes, disappearing into the distance in a matter of minutes.
We descend the way we came, back to the lake, where we lie for a short while in the sun, heads resting on our rain jackets. It’s beautiful to watch the clouds roll overhead, with the warm sun on our faces. The domingueros are already on their way back to their cars, picnic rugs slung over shoulders, and we have the entire valley to ourselves.
Our last day in Andorra begins much like the others, with a breakfast of hot coffee and marmalade toast. We're going to miss this beautiful pocket of the world, but we are also looking forward to a hot bath, a sleep-in and a few days of rest. We have achieved four peaks above 2500 metres in four days – no mean feat for a couple of amateurs.
Today's elevation gain, to Pic de Tristaina (2879 m), is around 500 m, beginning with an uphill meander around the three Tristaina Lakes. We reach the lakes early, enjoying the stillness of the morning and the prospect of another day with the peak all to ourselves. The last few metres to the summit requires a bit of scrambling and rock climbing, but the view of Lake Fourcat is absolutely worth the effort. The warm July sun hasn't quite melted the icebergs floating on the surface and the view is magical.
We spend out last night in Andorra in a hotel close to the French border. Predicting our exhausted state, Andre has booked us in for a hot stone massage. (The best massage of my life, I might add.) Too tired to do little else, I lie there, suppressing giggles as the masseuse balances a hot rock on my forehead. The tiredness is getting to me and all I can think about is how ridiculous I must look, lying there with a stone perched above my eyebrows.
We have a 7-hour drive to look forward to tomorrow, starting with a 2.8 km tunnel under the Pyrenees to France. (Impossible to hold your breath through that one!)
Adios!
