Write about what you [don't] know....

This is a piece I once wrote for a guidebook-writing competition.  I was hampered only by the fact that I had never been to Andorra. So being a medievalist with a taste for Dornford Yates, I stuck largely to what I did know. *I came second.

Dornford Yates once wrote a fantasy novel about a fairytale land that was somehow overlooked when the border between France and Spain was drawn; a magical place where anything could happen.  Andorra, a tiny, landlocked principality of some 468km² in the eastern Pyrenees, may not be the Etchechuria of The Stolen March, but has some similarities. Part of its appeal lies in the novelty of visiting a country that in some ways is scarcely a country at all, lacking its own language and army. Until the advent of the euro it was unusual in not having its own currency, accepting both Spanish pesetas and French francs.

Andorra’s relatively inaccessible location protected it from the mainstream of European events for most of the last thousand years. In the late 8th and early 9th centuries, however, the Pyrenees were in the front line of the struggle between Latin Christendom and the expansion of the Muslim Moors. According to tradition, Charlemagne granted a charter of liberties to Andorra’s inhabitants, but the earliest known document relating to Andorra is the grant in 843 by his grandson, Charles the Bald, of the valleys of Andorra to the Count of Urgell.  In the 13th century a dispute between the Spanish Bishop of Urgell and the French Count of Foix was resolved by a joint sovereignty agreement which has lasted to the present day. Andorra remained largely remote from international politics. As befits a country nominally ruled jointly by a Spanish bishop and the French head of state, Andorra remained neutral during both World Wars; though smuggling through its mountain passes proved lucrative. 

These days smuggling has been replaced by the more legitimate activity of tax free shopping; a major draw for the nine million or so visitors who outnumber Andorra’s 70,000 inhabitants each year.  The other big attraction is winter sports, heavy snowfalls and mountainous terrain providing excellent conditions for six months of the year. Sadly, most tourists completely miss the quieter, more rural Andorra.  The terrain is rugged, and the stone buildings and Romanesque churches may lack the chocolate-box appeal of Alpine views, but the rural areas provide excellent walking country and many towns and villages hold lively festivals during the summer months. 

Avoiding Temptation in Rhodes

As I make my way towards the old town, they are lying in wait for me, their gorgeous brown coats glossy and glistening. I find them increasingly hard to ignore as I walk past, eyes firmly fixed on the harbour. I concentrate on trying to imagine the harbour straddled by a colossal statue over a hundred feet high. But Helios is long gone now. These days the harbour entrance is guarded merely by an inoffensive looking bronze stag and a doe, destined to eternal separation and looking slightly forlorn atop their columns.

I find my attention wandering as the waiters, with an unerring knack for stating the obvious, do their best to distract me “Hello Miss! Chocolate cake!” they cry, and I turn to feast my eyes on the window displays of calorie-laden gateaux, some topped merely with cream, others with chocolate flakes or plump strawberries.  It would be so easy to sink into one of the cushion-laden chairs and give way to temptation.

But I press on.  The restaurants in the old town try a different approach.  Here, there are brightly coloured feathered guardians, welcoming potential customers with a friendly squawk. I pause to exchange a greeting with a magisterial blue and gold macaw, and continue on my way.

The old town is bustling and busy, filled with day trippers and cruise passengers jostling each other in their eagerness to snap up bargains in leather goods, embroidery and woodwork.  A group of art students sit in a café, putting the final touches to their watercolours of the scene.

I pass the Palace of the Grand Masters, looking remarkably well-preserved. And so it should, for it was largely rebuilt to serve as a holiday home for Mussolini, though he never got round to using it.

Eventually dusk falls, and the crowds disappear, returning to the floating palace out in the bay and the villas down the coast, and at last I have the place to myself.  I walk down the Street of the Knights, where the Knights of St John used to live – each nationality in its own inn.  As my footsteps echo on the cobbles, I can almost hear them calling to me.

I retrace my steps back towards the harbour, running the chocolate gauntlet once again.