learning curves - and slopes

Mark has been saying, 'let's go to Andorra' for years, to which I have always replied something along the lines of, 'Why on Earth would you want to go to a giant Oxford Street and buy fags when you don't smoke?'
This year at the point of choosing where we might go on our mini holiday while lovely cousins house/dog/youth-sat, Mark suggested Andorra again, and I said, 'Oh, go on then.'

This is what we do, us humans - make assumptions about people and places, and this assumption was no exception on my part. I spend a fair amount of time looking at land structures on 'Google Earth but had somehow failed to look at the spectacular mountains and valleys of this part of the world, thinking only of the shopping mayhem I had imagined in the capital - in fact Andorra itself in my mind was really just that: 'Andorra la Vella'.
The view above was taken as we motored, following camper vans and shiny BMW 4 by 4s towards the city. No one lives here, except cows who amble bovine-ly across the roads and sit chewing contentedly on roundabouts.
We drove into the capital and did the usual hunt around for an interesting, decaying hotel full of character (sadly disappearing these days) but did find a solid and handsome 1940's building that houses the Pyrenees hotel. In fact, a lot of this city's architecture hails from that decade as there was a mad spate of building during its rapid expansion as a tax haven/ski capital.
Compare (blurry - sorry) photo of Andorra La Vella in the 30s to photo of now.

Another assumption I had made was, as Andorra La Vella is a rich capital concerned with banks, skiing, et al, that everything would be expensive as far as hotels and restaurants were concerned; not so. Our three-star hotel with a vast buffet breakfast included and use of pool on the roof was 64.00 a night; somewhat less than anything in a French city.
We spent a happy day wandering around shops and gawping at how many types of gin and whisky are produced in the world; photographing the odd mix of rather brutalist and 90s architecture, and sampling cream cakes, then to return, swim on the roof overlooking the city and eat in the old -fashioned restaurant of the hotel.

Hotel Pyrenees dining room

 Roof top pool

  Well-stocked allotments on the slopes behind  the pool (swim to the sounds of chickens clucking)

A less salubrious area (which we loved)

 Glitzy spa building

Downtown Andorra la Vella

A few of the hundreds of different gins available

fish scale slate of the roofs

Tobacco - THE crop of the region: oddly they don't make cigars anymore - imported from Cuba

And a warning that tobacco will finish you off (posters for cigarettes everywhere) 


The next day we walked end to end of the city, discovered some interesting, less salubrious areas and decided against spending a lot of money having 'treatments' in the mega-glitzy and already rather dated looking spa.
Having eaten chicken soup with pasta again (seems to be a staple) and with our brains crammed with images from jewellery/camera/perfume - filled windows we decided to leave and see the Andorrian (a word?) 'countryside'.
Mere photographic images cannot capture the majesty of this region's mountainous landscape, but here are a few attempts.

And, this is the hotel we stayed in - rather reminded me of a location that might have been chosen for David Lynch's Twin Peaks. And we had a jacuzzi bath which I put bath gel in absently-mindedly and created a giant foam 'happening'.
Reluctantly we left Andorra after some serious walks in the mountains (Mark serious - me piddling about and looking at flowers, although I did walk/scramble up to the top of the hill featured in second pic) and drove back towards the Ariege, stopping briefly at a depressing ski station where we had lovely salad and encountered possibly the most friendly waitress - ever.

Ski station - without snow

Bugarach 19/12/2012

Greasy vile weather. Cows had retreated high up on a hill with a gradient of about one in four: now grazing with their backs to the mountain.
Some Gendarme presence on the road up from Rennes: an occasional cluster of them standing next to their bikes, chatting convivially and not stopping people to check documents/ tyres/ boot loads of Bugarach knick-knacks/ or illegal substances.
Red and white plastic bollards were evident, but not actually positioned across the road. I think the general master plan is to wait and see what happens from what I can gather from talking to various officers.
We drove up the main street. This was more like it.
Lots more police, some on horses. Lots more media people including all French TV channels, German and Japanese. BIG area of Red Cross tents, a stall selling Bugarach t-shirts, police helicopters circling, and a whole flotilla of fabulous dry system loos, beautifully painted in green with flowers and everything, even a string of coloured lights.
I spoke to an elderly man with a large stick and asked if he was a Bugarach resident. He said no and that everyone in the village was 'malade' - mad.
Dogs were everywhere. I think the one with different colored eyes is definitely in control of everything.
Ezra and I walked around to the bar to see what they might be doing: themed cocktails? themed end of the world music evenings? featuring covers of The End, by The Doors, and Armageddon It, by Def Leppard. Nothing. Completely shut, possibly until next summer? I mean, I'm no entrepreneur, but surely it might have been a good time to keep the bar running day and night?
Village inhabitants still unloading wood into their houses: not a bad idea if it's going to be as cold as it was last year.
Film crews still filming anything that moves or doesn't. Still no sign of any people other than journalists, police, emergency services and a few onlookers like me. But really - a few.
It all seems mad: the heavy police presence, the Red Cross tents, and the frightening cost of it all, but it is a fairly unique situation as no-one really knows what will happen. It may just be a dank winter day on the 21st with the same bods sloping about and a few caravans turning up. Or it could possibly be total mayhem with thousands of ernest walkers, caravaners and donkey riders appearing all keening for the loo, a decent meal and a Bugarach t-shirt.
So . . . is it all going to happen tomorrow?
Will the roads be blocked by a thousand caravans?
Will the portaloos cope?
Will the café have enough stocks of biscuits and beer?
Does anyone know what time of day or night the end is supposed to take place?
Were the Mayan people really aware of the South of France, let alone an, albeit impressive, mountain towering over a small village miles away from anything much.
On the way out of the village I stopped to take a picture of a flock of sheep. This peaceful scene reminded me what this area is really about. Quiet, meadowland, eagles, vultures, sheep, cows, natural beauty, and a village that probably hasn't changed a lot in a few centuries.
How odd that it will experience this crazy blip in history, a mad hysteria, the whole world visiting for a few days and then back to the sounds of cow bells and rumble of tractors.

Unless, of course, there is some truth in the rumour.

Bugarach 18/12/2012

Weather good, same road, same cows grazing placidly facing towards the mountain. In fact, I stopped to take a picture of them, mindlessly occupying half the road (me, not the cows). A police car appeared in my rear view mirror, then drew up alongside the car. As usual I went into a cold sweat, even though I hadn't done anything really wrong; tyres a bit bald, shit, where was my driving licence?I hadn't looked recently.
"Madame, you are very stupid to block the road thus", he said, which was true, "there will be many, many people coming along soon."
I looked suitably sheepish, apologised for having littering the road with our mud-encrusted car, and went to see what had changed up the road. I was feeling pretty excited, from what he had said there must now be at least a field full of caravans.
Nothing. Again.
Actually, there were now more police and reporters than inhabitants. The fire brigade had gone, leaving a portacabin. I took a picture and stood listening for a while to the telephone ringing inside it: could have been from a David Lynch short film - cut to inside of portacabin: somebody eating jelly with no clothes on staring at the phone while a eerie looking bald man laughs hysterically.
I hope on 'the day' that someone will actually be manning the phone.
Houses still for sale, dogs walking aimlessly, apart from the one who had a taxi job.
Man in blue anorak nowhere to be seen. Most locals were unloading wood into their houses and grunting about reporters.
Reporters mainly sitting in the 'relais de Bugarach' now nick-named Alien Café apparently. The man in there must be making more this week than over eight normal years. Good for him, and his biscuits were excellent.
Most reporters were far to involved in their busy schedules - Drink coffee, look out of door, drink beer, fit fluffy wind thingy to film camera, take it off again, sigh heavily, drink coffee - to say hello. I did meet some very nice camera and sound folk however, from a major German channel. They had been there since Sunday and I think the rural delights of the village were beginning to pale a little.
Back on the high street things were hotting up with the arrival of a couple of expensive looking black Citroens. Men in black suits got out, shook hands with the mayor and probably checked the big pieces of plywood that had been put up showing the zones of action etc - I don't know as I went for a walk to the lake then to see if there were any communes starting up on its banks. Not so much as a one-man tent.
The boards are a fascinating example of French box-ticking exercises: about half a trees worth of paper on each one. I should've examined them a little closer, but they seemed impenetrably complicated; like those pages you get from the insurance company and a little box to tick at the end to say you have thoroughly understood everything.
I was surprised that there was no menu posted up to tell one what the police and army were going to eat when they stopped enclosing the area for lunch, which usually seems to be the most important part of any French logistical gathering. Fois gras, ou salade de gésiers, bavette au sauce eschalottes, Ile flottante, demi carafe de rouge, café. I am tempted to print one and paste it on the board tomorrow . . . 
There seems to be a lot of different versions of what exactly is going to be cordoned off tomorrow. According to the 'plan of action' which looks like a bad drawing of a giant rabbit, most of the area around the village will be out of bounds. Some say you'll be able to walk in, others say not even walking in will be possible. 250 press passes have been issued however, according to 'a source' so the café's really going to be busy.

The Christmas decoration, typical of small French villages, sputtered into life as night fell, the towering mountain changing to an impressive silhouette. I said goodbye to a few friends I had happened upon and drove out of the village past a large party of journalists and camera people filming each other in front of the village sign. Back tomorrow.