A traveller drags her Mini up and down the steep mountain roads of Andorra in search of myths and legends hiding in the Pyrenean forests, passing ancient churches and shepherd huts in a tiny nation where nature still dominates the landscape.
Dropping down into first gear, I took another impossibly steep, hairpin turn. My little Mini struggled on up the sharp gradient, puffing and whining as she went. I’d started the climb from an elevation of 1,000 metres above sea level, and just five minutes of driving had easily added a few hundred metres of altitude. My ears popped with the pressure.
Another tight turn, left this time, and the tree line fell away, revealing the tips of mountains—a patchwork of green and barren rock, bare without their white winter coat. Andorra la Vella lay below me. The capital’s name means ‘Andorra the City,’ so called to distinguish it from Andorra the country, a tiny circle of land lying in the Pyrenees squeezed between France and Spain. Covering just 486 square kilometres (181 square miles), this nano nation is less than a third of the size of London!
A few more minutes of ascent, and I see it: the tower reaching into the dazzlingly blue sky. Pulling over just past the building, I unfold myself from the car and gaze up, shielding my eyes from the morning sun.
Before me, the square bell tower of the Romanesque Església Sant Miquel d’Engolasters (Saint Michael of Engolasters Church) rises more than 17 meters into the air. Punctuated with three pairs of slim, arched windows and topped with a tiled pyramidal roof, the structure is disproportionately large compared to the low stone building it adjoins.
Backed by tree-covered peaks, the church overlooks a mountain valley, which cradles the capital city below. It’s easy to imagine that the panorama hasn’t changed much in the 900 years since the church was built.
Stepping through the wooden doorway beneath the gabled roof, I entered the small nave. At the far end, the domed apse is decorated with a representation of Christ and Saint Michael, adding a smattering of colour to the otherwise whitewashed walls. A faithful reproduction of the 12th-century original, the fresco depicts Saint Michael slaying a dragon, a common representation of evil.
I stood admiring the image, just as countless Andorrans had surely done before me for almost a millennium. For generations, the people of this land would have prayed here to Saint Michael, protector of the people. There is something humbling and magical about being in such an historic place alone. In the silence, the voices and sounds of bygone eras reach through time. They filled the room with their prayers, their chants, their hopes, and thanks. I wanted to capture the moment.
‘Can I take a picture?’ I asked the solitary attendant in Spanish, so poor that he failed to understand. My charades proved more useful.
‘Sí, sin flash.’ I snapped a photo that failed to do justice to the scene or experience and emerged blinking back into the autumn sunlight. I folded myself back into the car. Onwards and upwards.
The road ended a few hundred metres up from the church. Back on foot, I located the start of a footpath and followed the signpost to Llac d’Engolasters. Within moments, I found myself on the edge of an icy, blue, glistening lake. It was encircled by pine trees; its waters shimmered and sparkled. The air was heavy with the sweet, fresh scent of pine.
I began making my way clockwise around the water, at first picking my way through the pine forest with the lake, 50 metres or so to my right, partially obscured by the thick evergreens. After a while, I walked down to the water’s edge and continued along the shoreline, occasionally dazzled as I looked directly at the water.
Families trailed along ahead and behind me, arguing, laughing, talking. Young couples strolled hand in hand in silence. There was a sense of calm and peace that can only be found in the mountains, far from civilisation. And yet we were only fifteen minutes from the capital city.
At the north end of the lake, I stopped to rest on a log and soak in the scenery. A French family was picnicking nearby. Squinting across the water, I absorbed the serenity. A peaceful place now, there are tales that tell of more turbulent times. One story speaks of the lake’s creation, explaining that it was formed by a divine flood. The devastating deluge was sent to engulf a town and its inhabitants as retribution for failing to help a beggar who had thrown himself on the mercy of the townsfolk. Some say the beggar was Christ in disguise.
According to another local legend, witches used to gather on these shores to bathe and perform rituals. Young men caught spying on them were turned into black cats as punishment for their voyeurism. The witches and their feline friends disappeared from the area when the hydroelectric dam was built in the 1930s. Nowadays, the lake is used as a reservoir and is not safe for bathing in, by witches or otherwise.
Finishing my loop of the lake, I returned to my car and began the descent back down the mountain before turning onto the main road that crosses the country from east to west. Andorra is divided into seven parishes (or parròquies in Catalan, the nation’s official language). Heading away from Andorra de Vella, I drove eastwards, crossing the length of the Parish of Encamp in under ten minutes and on into Canillo Parish.
On entering the village of Canillo, I took a sharp left and ventured once more onto the mountain roads. (Like many countries around the world, Andorra uses the same name for a region and its main town.) I was discovering that everywhere in this country was surrounded by countryside and nature. No sooner had an urban area begun than it ended. Even in the most built-up parts, such as La Massana, where I’d based myself, mountains and greenery were prominent. Here, nature comes first. Human settlements arrange themselves around it, sink in, cling closely to the mountainside to let Mother Nature take pride of place.
After a few minutes of precipitous climbing, I pulled over to clamber out of the car and marvel at the view. Tall, deep green pines and fir trees carpeted the display of mountains laid out below and around me. I could make out the snaking road I had just struggled up; a cluster of houses huddled together in the bosom of the valley.
Continuing, I crested the mountain and then coasted the long and winding road down through the alpine forest, crossing seamlessly into Ordino Parish. Now and then, the thick tree line gave way to expansive views across the country. At the bottom of the mountain, I rolled into and out of the picture-postcard village of Ordino. The next day, I would return to lunch at one of the streetside tables overlooking a pretty public garden. I would delight in reading a menu in four languages: Catalan, Spanish, French, and English. I’d tuck into tapas and sip a crisp Estrella beer. But, for now, I was on a mission to find a special someone before dark.
I joined another main road and travelled north, passing small villages, ancient churches, and local eateries. Among the evergreens that blanketed the surrounding mountainscape, yellow and gold-tinged trees caught the sunshine and gleamed. The urge to stop every few minutes to snap pictures was strong. I finally acted on it when I chugged into little Llorts.
Appearing out of the landscape as I rounded a bend, a handful of houses stood proud at the edge of the village. Angled on the curve of a road to face oncoming traffic, the houses heralded the entrance to the tiny settlement.
Three to four stories high, these grey and brown stone buildings boasted a balcony on each level and were capped by a sloping V-shaped tiled roof. Door frames and shutters were all made of brown wood, and each window overflowed with colourful flowers. They reminded me of a cross between a Swiss alpine chalet and the white and brown, stone and wood houses of northern Spain. Diners sipped and supped on the veranda of a nearby restaurant. Squeezed between the homes and the eatery: a small church. An entire village existed on just a few square metres of land.
I carried on past the short row of houses that comprised the remainder of Llorts. Onwards and upwards. Ever upwards into the mountains. The yellow and orange trees become more abundant on the mountainside. The air, always fresh, became colder. There’s only one road up and down. At intervals, small side roads split off this main trail like river tributaries, leading to a clutch of houses, then dead ends and countryside. According to the map, this road culminated in a loop some eight km north of Llorts. An offshoot from the loop, a smaller road was marked, striking out deeper into the mountain and onto seemingly nowhere.
My Mini huffed her way to the top of the loop, where I found a large car park and the entrance to a ski station, abandoned at this time of year before the snow returns. As the road curved back on itself, I crossed from tarmac to dirt track. With little more than a rocky trail to negotiate, in that moment, I’d have traded my beloved Mini for a 4WD without hesitation. Heart in mouth, I crept along the track. It was dangerously narrow with no barrier, but with no room to manoeuvre, the only way was forwards. Onwards and downwards.
Nearing the end of the dirt track, two small stone buildings caught my attention. Stood just metres apart, these squat constructions were built directly into the hillside so that the rear appeared to disappear into the earth itself. One was round with a flat top that was growing over with grass; the other, rectangular with a sloping roof. Each required bending down to enter through the low doorway, and both were bare, holding little clues as to their purpose.
‘Old shepherds’ huts.’ The words startled me as I stood gazing in confusion at these stone structures. A tall, willowy walker replete with hiking boots and a backpack had appeared silently by my side.
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘I met a local on my hike,’ he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the forest to our right, ‘he told me. Said they’re called cabanes and that they were built to provide protection from the elements for the farmers and shepherds that used to live and work on the mountains.’
‘Oh. That explains why they don’t look lived in,’ I thought out loud.
‘Yeah, they’re just temporary shelters. Can’t imagine how brutal it can get on these slopes in winter. Must have been a hard life. Not a bad view though, eh?’ he said, sweeping his arms wide to demonstrate the spectacular scenery. With that, he set off down the road without another word or backward glance.
I took a second to soak in the view these workers would have had as they huddled in their stone shelters before edging my car back onto the tarmac road and driving two short kilometres downhill. I stopped in a small roadside parking area next to a sign warning of avalanches and sent a silent thanks heavenward for the snowless peaks. A handful of parked vehicles signalled the presence of other explorers. The map told me that what I sought was a short walk from here.
I passed through a line of trees and emerged into a luscious valley. A great expanse of green grass opened up in front of me, leading to rocky mountain slopes in the near distance that were ringed by evergreens. Copses peppered the landscape and, in places, joined together to form small areas of woodland. With no obvious path to follow, I walked forwards into the alpine scene until I came to the edge of a wooded area. Intuition told me I wouldn’t find it in that direction, so I doubled back and then veered off to the right, away from the car park.
I heard the group before I saw them: a family gathered around some well-placed picnic tables. Bunting strung from trees announced it was someone’s birthday. Laughter and the smell of woodsmoke filled the air. A few metres from the group, a man stood watch over one of the open-air barbeques that dotted the area. Nearby, two burly figures drew a hacksaw back and forth between them across the limb of a felled tree as they created firewood.
‘Feliz cumpleaños,’ I said to the birthday girl, marked out by a big badge. She giggled; her sister waved.
Walking beyond the merry scene, I made my way towards the forest ahead and, drawing closer, saw a wooden figure begin to take shape between the trees. I’d found her: Dino. Or, more preciously, I’d found the magical wooden portal shaped like Dino that allowed her to cross from her world into ours. Her wooden avatar stood around four metres high and two metres wide, but perhaps only 30 centimetres deep, and cut a rudimentary figure. Short, stubby limbs stuck out from a round belly. Her enormous circular head was adorned with little horns and sprouted long, floppy ears. A toothy grin spread the width of her pine-coloured face beneath saucer eyes.
Dino is one of seven Tamarros, mischievous legendary creatures who live in their own land. The Tamarros are tasked with protecting Andorra’s nature and forests, with one for each of the country’s seven parishes (Dino is the protector of Ordino). They cross between worlds through magical portals that are hidden in Andorra’s forests. Formed from popular imagination and marketed as a family-friendly activity (the portals only open when offerings of stones are made by children!), these mythical beings represent a very real ideal: protecting the natural environment. As Saint Michael protects the Andorran people, the Tamarros (teach us to) look after the land itself.
Channelling my inner child, I picked up the roundest, smoothest stone I could find and laid it at Dino’s feet. I turned my back to her to survey the valley as she saw it and marvelled once more at the pristine and picturesque Pyrenees. We could all learn a little something from the Tamarros and the Andorran way of life.
