The Valley into Andorra
HOW I came to visit Andorra is rather a casual story. My brother, two friends and myself decided that we wanted a change for our next holiday. Mountains, of course, but with a difference – no tourist crowds, no signposts, and the minimum of hotels. In fact, the simple life. Wandering where the spirit moved, and bivouacking wherever the spirit decided to hover for the night. We puffed our pipes, pulled thoughfully at our beer, and visualised tranquil evenings in the hills.... It is a remarkable thing that these tranquil visions always leave out cold, wet, bad nights when no-one sleeps a wink – and cooking and washing up above all. Thus are we led away from the flesh-pots into hypothetical bliss... It was at about this stage of our somewhat indefinite planning that someone suggested Andorra. Having located it on the map, and confirmed that it lay in the heart of the eastern Pyrenees, about midway between Toulouse and Barcelona, we listened with growing enthusiasm as the suggestion was elaborated. In brief, Andorra offered the following attractions: one hundred and ninety-one square miles of complicated gorges, valleys and defiles, surrounded by the high peaks of the Eastern Pyrenees; an altitude varying between 6,500 and 10,100 ft.; no railways, and only one road, running from the Spanish frontier at Arcabell in the South-west to the French frontier at L’Hospibalet in the North-east; a total population of five thousand, largely concentrated in the half-dozen or so villages, including the Capital, Andorra-la-Viella, which are scattered along the road; south of the road, which runs in the main river valley of the Gran Valira, practically uninhabitated country; above all, the road excepted, no ingress or egress except by more or less inaccessible mountain passes.
We were convinced. Plans went ahead, and we left for France towards the end of August, 1939. Travelling overnight, we reached Tarascon – not to be confused with the other town of this name made famous by Alphonse Daudet’s "Tartarin de Tarascon"– early on Sunday morning, and within an hour we were getting off the bus at Auzat, a small village that stands guard over the end of the valley we were to ascend for the next two days. Sunday does not interfere with business in the French Provinces, so we were able to equip ourselves with espadrilles – a kind of rope-soled sandal – at a stall in the market place. They are ideal on the. hot, rocky tracks of the region, but it takes time to get used to them, as they have no heels, and have the further disadvantage of soaking up any available water with a thirsty relish.
After satisfying the curiosity of an elderly peasant woman as to our plans, and signally failing to convince her that we were not mad, we set off up the valley. Almost at its head, where the three frontiers meet, lay our first objective – a pass into Andorra known as the Port de Rat. It was very hot; our rucksacks seemed to grow more heavy as the day wore on, and we were almost glad when it began to cloud over. By mid-afternoon we were above the tree-line, and had to tackle our first yasse. A yasse is a peculiar bottleneck caused by the progressive narrowing of the valleys of this region, presenting the appearance of a rock wall, usually deeply cut by the river, which often descends in a series of fantastic rapids and water- falls. Once the yasse is surmounted the valley broadens, only to close in again a few miles further on, and one’s upward progress resembles the ascent of a gigantic flight of steps. By seven in the evening we were in a broad section of the valley with yet .html yasse about a mile ahead broken by the most picturesque gorge we had yet seen. We decided to camp for the night, and hoped that the weather might improve, as it had rained steadily for several hours. Food took some time to prepare, as the wet did not improve the combustibility of the prickly scented shrub which with the exception of grass was by now the only vegetation. It burned most reluctantly, and emitted a thick evil-smelling white smoke, despite encouragement provided by Meta tablets.
It was very cold the next morning, and we could see little . beyond the yasse, because of the mist which clung to the mountain sides. After a further struggle with wet fuel we cooked breakfast and set about packing for the day’s march. According to the map, it would be late afternoon before we reached the tip of the valley, and as we should then be faced with a stiff climb up the mountainside towards the Port de Rat, the continued bad weather filled us with gloom. By the time we reached the yasse it was raining steadily, and as we toiled up the rocky paths and ledges the sense of desolation was increased by the hollow roar of the torrent below us, and the eddies of mist which revealed ghostly shadows of the mountains towering above. During the afternoon we came across an odd freak in a gloomy gully – an isolated arch of snow spanning the stream, for all the world like the crumbling ruin of an old abbey. It was the first snow we had seen, a reminder that even at 6,000 ft. it can be cold where no sun penetrates.
The main stream was now quite a gently meandering ribbon, and we knew that there was a lake not far ahead which marked the end of the valley and the beginning of the climb up to the pass. By great good fortune the mist suddenly lifted when the lake was but a stone’s throw away, and we took stock of our position.’ The end of the valley was barred by a semicircle of mountains, and we could see five torrents which cascaded down to the lake. Our way lay up the mountainside to our left, and we decided to go on and try to reach the pass in spite of the weather, rather than wait for an improvement which seemed most unlikely. We established a compass bearing as a rough guide, and set off as the mist damped down more 6rmly than ever. From now on the map was useless, and none of us had much hope that we should reach the pass’ by nightfall’ Visibility was restricted to a few yards by mist and driving rain; the going was difficult, over loose rocks and boulders, and became precipitous in places, and we were forced to make infuriating detours to cross numerous swollen torrents. We plodded. on mechanically under the burden of rucksacks which seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, not thirty-five, and tried to find some consolation in the fact that movement at least kept us warm.
Just before sunset we decided it would be folly to go further, after three hours erratic upward progress by compass bearing alone, and cast about for a spot sufficiently level to pitch the tents, and sufficiently sheltered to prevent them blowing away.
After some searching, a tiny patch between two great boulders prescribed itself, and we eventually succeeded in erecting both tents and crawling into them, numb with cold, very wet, and nearly exhausted. However, once dry and in our sleeping bags we felt better, and some food and a stiff tot of brandy persuaded us that we might survive if the tents were not blown away before morning! We slept fitfully, disturbed by the drumming of rain on the tent when it was audible through the shriek of the wind, and by the shriek of the wind when it was audible above the hollow rumbling of the thunder- storm which wandered around all night without ever seeming to settle directly overhead. For this concession we were duly thankful. I have never seen such continuous lightning, and soon came to the conclusion that a tent on the mountainside is not the best place from which. to view a Pyrenean thunderstorm.
My brother woke us the next morning with the welcome news that there was very little mist and a magnificent view; he did not tell us how cold it was, but left us to find out for ourselves. We were soon shivering beside him and taking in the view. It was worth the discomfort. Far below we could see the lake, fed by the silver threads to which the streams were reduced by the height of our vantage point, and beyond the jagged snow- patched peaks, grey and forbidding in the morning light, we could see the first peaks in Spain. Beyond them, ridge on ridge, swept the serrated ranges of the Spanish Pyrenees. Turning our bac4 on the entrancing panorama, we considered our own problem. The broad gully in which our tents were pitched rose steeply to a great ridge, of which we caught an occasional glimpse through the mist which clung about it. Somewhere it was broken by the Port de Rat, and we were all fervently hoping that we had not wandered too far off the route in the previous day’s mist. A few minute’s work with map and compass suggested that we were somewhere below the pass, so we ate a hasty meal and struck camp, with no regrets at leaving so bleak a spot.
There appeared to be a faint track running in a zig-zag up the gully, though it was so faint at times that we were tempted to doubt its existence. However, when the gully narrowed and its walls reached up vertically on either side, the track became more definite, and often left the floor of the gully for ledges running along the enclosing walls. We began to look above us for the break that would indicate the Port de Rat and the frontier between France and Andorra. At last we saw it, and put on a spurt, eager for our first glimpse of the unknown. On reaching the pass we were not disappointed. On either side of us the ridge rose steeply, and the pass itself was no more than sixty feet wide. Behind lay the long. descent into France, and before us, a great desolate valley, sweeping away to our left to be hidden by the usual jagged peaks. This was our first view from a really good vantage point, and we were greatly struck by the impression of mountain ranges, and the absence of the dominating peaks which characterise Alpine scenery. In this part of the Pyrenees, mountain ridges are the rule, isolated peaks exceptional, and for this reason route-finding needs particular care. Once in the wrong valley, where all valleys are so much alike, there are no easily recognisable peaks to give warning of the error, and every possibility of wasting a whole day in blissful ignorance of the fact that the pass aimed at lies in the valley running parallel with, but inaccessible from, the valley one is ascending.
To return to the Port de Rat. Photographs taken, we donned our rucksacks, trudged down a few hundred feet of dirty snow below the pass, and began the rough descent to the valley. It soon began to rain again, but as our clothes were still wet from the previous day we were indifferent, and comforted ourselves with the knowledge that we should soon be in wooded country and be able to light a fire. Already we could see clumps of stunted pines on the slopes above, and we were thankful when we were in the thickly wooded valley of the Riu de Tristany. All we had to do now was to follow the stream, and it would lead us to Lo Serrat, the first Andorran village for travellers entering by the Port de Rat. It was easier said than done. We could certainly hear the stream, but it was usually several hundred feet below us, and on the rare occasions when we established contact, it perversely hurled itself down in water- falls or rapids, and disappeared into yet .html gorge. .Infuriating detours had to be made in order to cross tributary torrents, and a journey of half-a-dozen miles on the map involved walking double the distance. An hour or two of erratic progress down the valley of the Tristany reduced our conversation to the level of muttered blasphemy, and when we saw Lo Serrat nearly a thousand feet below us, and a mile or so away, our hearts sank. It was a mere huddle of stone huts, and we recalled the warnings of friends about its poor reputation for hospitality, However, we had to get there before we could put its reputation to the test, and this was no mean problem. The going got progressively worse with every yard we covered, and we plunged down sodden grassy slopes, waded through streams, clambered over rocks and forced our way through spiky undergrowth convinced that we were destined never to find the track which ornamented the map.
When we eventually stumbled on it, the village was only a few hundred yards away, and it did little to relieve the general gloom into which we were plunged. Land is precious in Andorra, and the few narrow stone houses were huddled round the Church, and built two or three stories high. A few dirty hens scattered into the open doors at our approach, but of human beings there was no sign. The shutters of the unglazed windows were closed, and we felt that we were in a village of the dead. As we squelched our way through the mud between the houses and peered into every open door in the hope of seeing someone alive, I was at last rewarded by catching a glimpse of an old man asleep on a bench in the gloomy interior of his house, with hens picking about his feet. We all peeped at him, the first Andorran we had seen, the first human being the party had seen for three days. The tiny fields on the steep terraced slopes above the village were deserted, but stooks of recently harvested grain, often only two or three to a field, were evidence of a laborious cultivation. Lo Serrat had nothing but the Church and rude houses – no shop, no inn, no road connecting it with the outside world.
We were not disposed to waste any time there, and determined to push on to Ordino, the first village on the motor road. We knew that there was an hotel there, and we thought blissfully of baths, hot meals and beds as we descended the mule-track down the Riu de Valira, eating as we walked. It was pouring with rain, and too cold to make a halt pleasant. Fortunately we were well supplied with food, and not dependent on the doubtful hospitality of Lo Serrat.
We rested two days in Ordino, chiefly in order to catch up with the ominous developments in’ the international situation. It was difficult to arrive at the truth. A few Frenchmen were staying at the hotel on a fishing holiday, and wild rumours of declarations of war reverberated through the company. We could never hear the wireless properly, owing to the violent arguments that accompanied every news-bulletin, but we gathered enough to convince us that Armageddon might be delayed long enough for us to see a little more of Andorra before trying to get home.
Realizing that travel is best restricted to the early morning and the evening in the enervating heat of the Andorran valleys, we left Ordino with just enough time to get us to Las Escaldea before sunset when the time came to move on. We found a camp-site well above the town, and spent the next morning visiting the capital, Andorra-la-Viella. While we were examining the odd little parliament-house we found there, the care-taker appeared, and asked if we would like to go inside. Beaming all over his face, he produced a key, over a foot long and imposingly massive, and proceeded to open the low, iron- bound door. He spoke little French, but waxed enthusiastic in sign-language and Catalan as he showed us round the gloomy interior. We saw the chapel, and the council chamber with its ancient wooden benches and tables, for all the world like a schoolroom. We were then led into the library, of perhaps two or three thousand volumes, largely French and Spanish official publications, with a respectable section devoted to agriculture. Justice was represented by the garotte, a fearful instrument, still the official method of execution: but the Andorran is evidently not given to homicide, for it was last used more than seventy years ago. The kitchen, black with the smoke of centuries, boasted an enormous iron cooking-pot slung from chains fixed to the roof, ready for a meal at the next meeting of the Council. The cook must have an unenviable job, as there is no chimney, and the smoke escapes through a hole in the roof. In a small room off the council chamber hung the cocked hats and cloaks of the councillors, which are handed down until they are no longer fit for use. It was all very quaint, but somehow impressive, For Englishmen like ourselves the spectacle of this mountain people continuing an ancient tradition so akin to our own in its love of independence and self-government was heartening.
We wandered back along the dusty road to Las Escaldes for lunch at the Hotel Plâ, and talked to the proprietress, who is one of the two or three people in Andorra who can speak English. She remembered some friends of ours who had stayed there six years before, and warned us not to repeat their inglorious feat of getting lost in the attempt to reach Soldeu by way of the Col dels Cortalls. We assured her that we would treat the complicated geography with the respect that it deserved! It required a great effort of will to don our heavy rucksacks and emerge into that scorching heat, but we were determined to camp that night, and wanted to get well up the Riu dels Cortalls that night. Our way lay through Encamp and La Mosquera, which is as far from being a camper’s paradise as the second name suggests. Every kind of biting insect in Andorra is reputed to congregate in that region, and we had no intention of calling a halt until it was well in the rear.
We left the road at Encamp, and turned south-east into the mountains, zig-zagging up the track between tiny fields, and resting frequently, for it was almost unbearably hot. Soon we were in the pine-woods and approaching a pronounced gorge. Another yasse, in fact, which opens out at its top into the wide valley, almost a high plateau, of Cortalls d’Encamp. There was little hope of climbing the gorge before nightfall, and we began to look about for some fiat ground on which to pitch our teats – never a great hope anywhere in Andorra, and almost a forlorn hope half-way up a yasse. However, luck was with us. We spotted a ledge on which a log hut had been built against the hillside on the other side of the gorge, and it looked as if there might be room to pitch two tents. Clambering down to the stream, and crossing it by way of a conveniently felled sapling, with great caution – one falls into a torrent like that one once only – we soon reached the ledge. There was room to pitch the tents, but the situation was airy in the extreme, as it was only a couple of steps over the ledge to the stream, two hundred feet below.
We did our cooking in the hut, which was evidently used by lumbermen for the same purpose, and spent an hour or two by a roaring fire, discussing the vexed question of future plans. In view of the imminence of war, and the difficulty we had . experienced in buying sufficient food to replenish our depleted stocks, our plan for a camp in the mountains south of thc Col dels Cortalls was regretfully abandoned. This was to have been the culmination of the trip, and we had hoped to do some climbing in the area of the Cirque des Pessons, the most remote and mountainous region in Andorra. However, we had scarcely enough food for three days, even with rigid economy, which would only allow us one day for climbing, assuming good weather. Mist or bad weather would have made our position difficult once up in the mountains, as the valleys are high and exposed, and we already knew how easy it was to be mistaken about the time required for a journey worked out on the map. The next day clinched our decision. It was so hot, even early in the morning, that the mere thought of packing up to move on made us perspire.. And it was an ideal situation in which to be idle. The view down the gorge towards Encamp, the distant ridges fading into a haze under the deep blue sky, and the rushing of the torrent below combined to produce a contemplative frame of mind in which the threatening future and the discomforts of the immediate past were reduced to their proper perspective. I often think of our care-free hours on that absurd little ledge while the world was going mad, and I am certain we were in the right place. It somehow sums up for me the atmosphere of peace which has been so far off in the tension of these tremendous years.
There was the most violent thunderstorm I have ever experienced during the night, but the next morning it was, if possible, even hotter. I had a mild attack of sunstroke, in spite of the reasonable caution I thought I had exercised. Insolation is markedly increased at seven thousand feet, and a short exposure to the sun without protection is quite sufficient to produce unpleasant after-effects. We left very early the next day and soon reached the top of the gorge. The view to our right as we advanced higher up the wide valley was tantalising – fantastic ridges and steep rocky peaks outlined like jet against the southern sky. We resolved then and there that one day we would return to explore this tempting district. A camp somewhere south of the Col dels Cortalls could be supplied in a day from Encamp, and would allow a party to sample the climbing on the peaks round the Cirque des Pessons. The rock is of course much weathered, but there must be plenty of mixed rock climbing for a party prepared to exercise caution in a district which has never, to the best of my knowledge, been thoroughly explored by climbers.
The Col des Cortalls was easy, but we found some difficulty in establishing a sound route down the valleys beyond the pass, so as to reach Soldeu, and a party following the route in the reverse direction would have to take a good deal of care, as it would be very easy to miss the pass. We tried to take a short cut, which probably cost us two or three hours of unnecessary scrambling over minor ridges, and confirmed our opinion that it is best to stick to the valleys, even it if looks a long way round on the map.
It was after sunset when we reached Soldeu, but we found accommodation at a small modern hotel which has replaced the inn of former years, and soon discovered that the inter- national situation made a return to England imperative, particularly as travel across France would be difficult with mobilisation proceeding. We were unable to obtain enough food for two days, and decided to rest at Soldeu and attempt to reach the first village in France by a species of forced march via the pass of the Fontargente. War or no war, we unanimously rejected the idea of leaving on the bus which ran by the hotel door as completely beyond the pale. This question of food is very important in Andorra. We found it extremely difficult to buy any reasonable quantities, and any party intending to spend much time in the mountains would be best advised to bring all they need with them. The ideal solution would be to enter the country by car, and leave the vehicle either at Soldeu or at Encamp. It would then be possible to spend a couple of days bringing provisions up to a camp established south of the Col dels Cortalls, thus enabling the party to live in the mountains for a worth-while period.
We left Soldeu very early, having rested the whole of the previous day, and made good time up the Val d’Inclès, which runs north-east from near Soldeu to the French frontier, which is crossed by the Port de Fontargente, 9,300 feet. It is an easy pass from the Andorran side, but difficult to find from the French side. However, there is a small lake immediately below the col in the ridge which serves to distinguish it from thc numerous false gaps in the ridge, and provides a safe key to the pass. We found the descent involved some rather exhausting scrambling, and the next six or seven miles required careful reference to map and compass, and even more reliance on our own judgment, as the heavily hachured French map seemed remarkably obscure. Once in the Val d’Aston, the rest was stiff walking through an interminable pine-forest, following the river by rapids and waterfalls through twenty miles of the finest wooded scenery any of us had ever seen. An occasional bear is still shot in this region, and it is wild enough to suggest a comparison with the Canadian Rockies.
We were very tired when we reached the tiny village of Aston an hour after dark, having covered about thirty miles, and having crossed a stiff pass into the bargain. Our wanderings in Andorra were at an end. How we got back to England just in time to hear the declaration of war is .html story. But when the war is over, I shall go back to Andorra, It has possibilities.