Andorra is one of the very few countries on Earth that no one has ever bothered invading. True, Hannibal passed through with his elephants, but he had the Roman Empire to destroy and didn't stay long. Napoleon once planned to annex it, but the Andorran delegation to Paris decided not to go to the talks. Napoleon's clerks forgot about them.

And then so did Napoleon.

The Nazis thought about it briefly in 1943, but the Andorran leaders petitioned Spanish dictator Generalissimo Franco to intercede on their behalf. Surprisingly, he remembered to do so. And the Nazis said, "What? Where? Andorra? Can you spell that again? OK. We weren't that interested anyway; had problems finding it on the map." Or words to that effect.

It's not that nobody wants Andorra -- the 13,000 Andorrans are fond of the place, and the large ex-pat community includes citizens from 130 or so other countries. It's just that Andorra is rather small as nations go. Surrounded by the very high Pyrenees mountains (Andorra is the country with the second-highest altitude in Europe, after Switzerland), a lot of people have never heard of it before.

When the owner of our French pension saw me busily preparing to depart, he asked where I was planning to go, after beginning the conversation with his usual diatribe against Arabs (the grizzled old thug had been in the OAS, the terrorist outfit that wanted France to retain its colony in Algeria, and tried to assassinate President De Gaulle). When that was over, I told him that I was going to Andorra.

"It's a long way," he said. "And there's nothing there when you get there," he added. "But if you want to go, you will go." A splendidly fatalistic Gallic shrug followed, then the punch line: "You English always do."

Monsieur OAS was right on both counts. I wanted to go and I went. And it was a long way. Not as the Pyrenees eagles fly. They could be there from lowland France in a few leisurely wing beats with the help of the right thermals. But the serpentine, narrow roads that wind and climb and dip and get blocked by arthritic trucks capable of achieving speeds almost as great as 10 kph, ensure the earthbound motorist is in for an ordeal.

The views are grand. Thick forest on sheer slopes; the occasional alpine meadow with fluffy white goats or horses with cow bells; gorges; picturesque, rather introverted villages (with stubbornly shuttered shops and no place to park even if they were prepared to open); rivers; and of course lots of mountains.

But progress is so slow, the gradient so steep, the road so narrow, and the petulant honking of car horns so grating that the views rapidly lose their allure and become just another irritating distraction.

After four hours of failing to overtake anything, I began, in a very un-English manner, to think about turning round and leaving Andorra to its mysteries. The obvious impediment to this act of cultural treason was that there was a queue of 30-plus vehicles backed up behind and no place to turn.

Cheap Scotch whisky, I thought. Concentrate on priorities, Paxton. Andorra is duty free! Andorra is a co-principality. It is ruled by two co-princes and has been since 1419. And although Andorra is a member of the United Nations and the Council of Europe, it has no interest whatsoever in joining the European Union. To do so would mean that Andorra would relinquish its role as the major source of smuggled cigarettes and booze in Europe and its tax-free status.

The economic importance of duty-free shopping here is obvious as soon as one crosses the border. The supermarkets start immediately. Andorra has more supermarkets per square meter than any other country in Europe. The trend began in the 1950s when enterprising Andorrans imported French goods such as stainless-steel pans and nylon stockings, which they then flogged to the Spanish. Business boomed and diversified. More and more stuff arrived, and less and less domestic tax was levied. More and more people took to the roads lured by an increasingly diverse orgy of designer labels, perfumes, electronic gizmos, Cuban cigars and other luxury toys.

Entering Andorra involves driving straight past the Customs and Immigration office. If you stop and prepare to present documents, the officials look at you with amusement and wave you on. And the insufferable twerp in the Citroen behind you honks his horn to reinforce the message.

Leaving the country is slightly less predictable. Sometimes a vehicle is searched, and if it is, inevitably an arrest follows. Trying to explain that you arrived in Andorra with 32 bottles of single malt, eight salmon, two Bluefin tuna, 7,000 cigars and 10 liters of French perfume is a waste of time. But it's worth a try.

The majority of vehicles I observed departing simply sailed through the red tape. Including ours. This was seriously annoying. I'd rigorously stuck to the rules and -- dammit! -- could have filled the car boot with 50,000 bucks worth of contraband. For a moment I was tempted to turn around and have another go. Then I thought about what I'd seen in Andorra. Apart from the shops.

There had been a lot of ski resorts under construction. By a lot, I mean lots. Every village was building almost more new hotels than it had houses. I suppose the skiing must be good, and the apres-ski parties must be exceptionally hedonistic. But a piste in summer just looks like a firebreak. And all the new lodges under construction looked dull without snow.

The Andorrans I'd met had been very nice if you were in their restaurant or buying their stuff. There was more than a normal amount of road rage in the capital, though. There had been a few interesting-looking churches, a handful of ruins, lots of banks offering 15 percent interest on savings accounts, nice Catalan food with the exception of a rubbery rabbit and the vile custard pudding everybody seems to get excited about. But overall, the country lacked bite.

Some cops arrived, and started searching another driver's toolbox. They found caviar. That clinched it. I had bought my Scotch, and I didn't want to get busted. My second invasion of Andorra forgotten, it was time to hit that road again.