► How we bought a pair of old Fiat Panda 4x4s
► Join Piers Ward’s remarkable adventure
► Breakdowns, paperwork and a labour of love
Blame WhatsApp. In a story about two decades-old Fiat Panda 4x4s, the irony of modern technology being at the root of our problems is not lost on me.
It started back in late 2022, when Ray Collier, a pal who spends a significant part of his year working as a tyre development engineer in Spain, was bored one evening and did what all sensible folk do – he drank some wine and Googled old cars.
A day later, a WhatsApp pinged through to my phone: ‘We need to do this. Two Fiat Pandas. Andorra. Drive them to the UK. Yours is the green one. Mine is the blue. You in? Need an answer ASAP as they go fast.’
Bear in mind this was after I’d just got off a plane to Qatar. My brain was fried from the heat and jetlag and my wife knew nothing about me spending our savings on an Italian car that I’d never clapped eyes on. As far as life strategies go, it’s not one I’m going to be teaching my kids.
But then logic has been conspicuous by its absence in this entire process. Instead, it’s all been somewhere between ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’, ‘How bad can it be?’ and ‘Well, I did not see that coming’.
I’ve since discovered that even Ray hadn’t actually looked at the cars. Instead, it was a chap called Georg (not our European editor Georg Kacher…) who bought the cars on our behalf and transported them into Spain from Andorra so that Ray could get them into his workshop outside Barcelona. WhatsApp lit up, money was transferred. None of us have ever met Georg. He has subsequently disappeared off the face of the earth.
But an embarrassment of Pandas (an appropriate collective noun) was duly delivered to Barcelona and, scrolling forward a few months, it’s time to get the Pandas home to the UK.
Three days to go. WhatsApp again. How bad can it be? Turns out it can be pretty bad. ‘FFS’ from Ray. It transpires my Panda is allergic to fuel, or at least reluctant to hold a full tank of it – Ray went to fill it with super unleaded only for it to transfer swiftly to his workshop floor, courtesy of a large hole.
Two days to go. On WhatsApp, a fire emoji 🔥. In trying to get the tank out to repair it, a little bit of the tank, car and workshop may have slightly caught alight.
One day to go. WhatsApp again. Another flame-based emoji 🔥🔥. Good lord. Lightning never strikes twice? Maybe not, but workshop fires operate by a different set of rules.
So you’ll forgive me if I was a little nervous waiting at Barcelona airport for the little Pandas to arrive, driven by Ray (below) and a helper from Ray’s workshop. With me is another friend called Chris Putt, who we’ll learn later is a handy person to know.
There they are! As two Pandas hove into view all their sins are forgiven. They look tiny – a vivid reminder of just how huge modern cars are – and cute. I’d like to describe the sense of joy at first seeing them as akin to when your children are born, but seeing as my wife is only recently back on speaking terms with me, it’s probably safer to swerve that and say the twin Pandas are a wondrous tribute to the skill of designer Giorgetto Giugiaro. The styling is beautiful in its simplicity, with form and function in perfect harmony.
These are cars that revel in being brilliant at everything they need to do, and not a jot more.
Mine is remarkably clean inside for a car that only recently was mildly on fire. It hasn’t needed much doing to it mechanically to get it ready for the 1000-mile trip home: new radiator and battery; an oil change and fresh spark plugs; a CV boot was leaking; it needed a reversing bulb and we decided to fit four new 155/65 R14 Davanti Terratoura all-terrain tyres. And a repaired fuel tank that’s now more resin than metal.
What a sweet little thing to drive. I’d never driven an original Panda before so I was completely in the dark about how it would perform but first impressions at Barcelona are staggering.
The 1.1-litre engine is incredibly smooth and it’ll pull happily from tickover right up to what would be the redline if there were a rev counter, never getting flustered and with a surprising amount of torque (62lb ft at just 3000rpm). It had 54bhp when new so it’ll be even less than that now, but with a 800kg kerbweight, there’s not much to haul around.
Mine is a 2002 car, so comes with technical marvels like central locking and fuel injection. There’s even a CD player.
One of the few sensible things about this entire process was buying the cars in Andorra. Turns out that Pandas are remarkably cheap out here and, if you choose wisely, remain in surprisingly good condition. Although it’s high up in the Pyrenees, they use less salt on the roads in winter so the cars don’t rot as much. And because they’re 4x4s, we can drive them through Andorra and back into Spain via the smuggler’s route, the off-road pathway that snakes across the hills with minimal manned border points. We’ll be paying our dues to the government when we get them back to the UK, but it’s hard to resist a day of letting the Panda do exactly what it was designed to do across Andorra’s steep mountain terrain.
So we find ourselves climbing out of Andorra la Vella, the country’s capital, into the ski zone and across to the start of the smuggler’s route. It’s a bizarre moment. You go from busy tourist roads, with coachloads of sightseers and the odd lunatic on a bicycle, tarmac snaking across a stunning vista of tree-lined mountains, to a literal end of the road around an innocuous corner. There are no warning signs, just a very simple process: tarmac ends, gravel track starts.
This is where I start to get nervous. The track is pretty broken up, with sharp rocks sticking out and greedily eyeing up the tyres’ sidewalls, and it’s also steep. I wouldn’t want to be in anything much bigger than a Panda because at least in this narrow machine you can pick a line around the nastier looking stones. Fiat routed the exhaust underneath the propshaft, so although the Panda climbs like a mountain goat, it clonks more rocks than I’d like. We’re 300 yards into 50 miles of track, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious.
Otherwise, though, the Panda is coping well. We’re in four-wheel drive, engaged with a reassuring thunk via an umbrella-shaped handle behind the gearstick, rear free-wheeling hubs also set to four-wheel drive, and in first gear. There’s no low range but first is so short that you don’t need it. It’s tempting to use the brakes, but first controls the descent speed nicely and besides, the brake pedal is so soft I’m not sure it would have much effect anyway.
With the sun beating down out of a cloudless sky, the temperature climbs inexorably. Heat haze shimmers across the valley and we find ourselves checking the Panda’s temperature gauge every few minutes. Ray is following and has to do running repairs to his, as the power lead to the radiator fan keeps falling off.
The route is deserted. We meet one other car in two hours of driving as we creep and bounce across the sheer cliffs. There are signs of life, including a group of horses and the odd lizard, but humans are scarce – the contrast to the busy tarmac section is stark.
Dust gets everywhere and we quickly learn that there are two options to climate control in the Panda: windows open, dust everywhere, mildly hot; windows closed, dust in fewer places, nuclear-fission hot. No wonder the 20-year-old sweat marks are in clear evidence on my car’s seats, like a marathon runner who’s worn the same T-shirt for the last couple of decades.
An abandoned village slowly reveals itself up ahead, with houses seemingly carved out of the massive mountain’s rock face. We’re two hours from the nearest road, further from the closest village, yet even here the godly people of Andorra built a church.
And a pub! Turns out the village isn’t deserted after all – it is in fact Tor, misleadingly prominent on most Andorran maps; even small hamlets in Andorra warrant recognition. One excellent lunch stop later and we’re on our way, winding along a valley floor and, apparently, back into Spain.
Like the transition to the gravel, there is no outward acknowledgement of the change of country – the only sign is that our phones start pinging as we’re back on EU roaming charges. (Top tip: do not leave mobile data on in Andorra. That way bankruptcy lies.)
What’s equally remarkable is how easy it’s been. No grappling with gates or angry farmers, or angrier ramblers, as the few people we’ve come across seem just as happy as we are to be pottering about enjoying the scenery. We have much to learn from this way of living life.
And what a set of vistas it is. I’m lucky enough to have experienced some great views over the years, but the mountains of Andorra top them all.
The day goes from the hazy, dew-soaked sunshine of early morning through to searing bright at noon and back to soft glow in the evening, painted across verdant green mountains. Elsewhere a road would scar and spoil this sort of view, but here it adds to the intrigue, giving the outlook a sense of scale and an appealing rawness. It’s a huge wilderness, empty and foreboding in two 20-plus-year-old Fiats. At points, we cover 600 metres of vertical drop in just a few kilometres.
As we head towards our overnight stop, the Panda has one last surprise up its sleeve. Rounding a sharp bend, we’re faced with a steep climb right into the sun. Broken rocks, no momentum, geology scattered all over the path making a line tricky to pick. But with the sort of gearing that makes walking pace easily achievable, the Panda just grips and goes. There’s the odd bit of scrabble when the surface gets loose, but in general the climb upwards is so competently handled that it’s almost dull.
I’m glad we’re on the Davanti all-terrain tyres. Unusually, they’re also classified as winter tyres, but we don’t require much of that in Andorra’s 26º heat. They help for grip levels with their knobbly tread, but the biggest bonus is the lack of punctures. We’ve been over some knife-edge rocks but both cars have survived.
It’s getting dark and the Panda’s lights aren’t bright so Ray starts to up the pace, even getting up to third gear on some smoother bits, like he’s reliving his childhood dream of a Lancia Delta S4. In reality, the Italian link is about the only connection between our Pandas and that rally special, especially as we get easily passed by a pair of tricked-out Land Cruisers. Literally leaving us in their dust cloud, they simply power over the sort of rocks that have us picking a delicate line.
We’ve only covered 50 miles but it’s been a mentally draining 50, constantly scanning the road ahead for obstacles and with a niggle of worry in the back of your head that it’s still 950 miles to home. Weirdly, all the off-roading has affected me physically as well – I don’t notice it while I’m concentrating on driving, but as we pull into the hotel car park I can feel the muscles in my forearms start to ache. I must have been gripping the Panda’s wheel harder than I thought.
Still, with 5kg of dust blown out of my nose and a still-working Panda parked up, we’re surviving.
The next day is the start of the journey home, with about 450 miles to cover to get to Nantes, three-up (Chris, videographer Luke and myself) and a fair bit of kit in my car. And it’s a car that hasn’t done sustained, high-speed motorway work for what, a decade? If anything can go wrong, it’ll be today.
The plan was for Ray to join us on the journey north in his car, but work in Barcelona beckons for him and the rest of his guys so we’re on our own, in a foreign land, with our typically British (dismal) levels of language skills.
Somewhat surprisingly, the leg to Nantes passes without incident. The plucky little Panda sails across southern France as if it was born to it, happily sitting at 60mph and with just enough zip to overtake the odd lorry.
The temperature’s in the high 20s, so the humans add to the sweaty seats, but the Panda wings along quite happily, quiet enough to enjoy a conversation with fellow passengers, which turns out to be vital given the lack of a functioning radio.
The final day is the tester. We have a ferry to catch out of Cherbourg and within 30 minutes of setting off from Nantes we know we’ll miss it: there’s a loud hiss from under the bonnet and the temperature gauge – which has stuck resolutely to 65º across sweltering Andorran mountains and baking French plains – starts to climb ominously.
We have to pull over. Remember my friend Chris Putt from earlier? All of a sudden, he transforms into Super Chris, mainly on account of being the only member of our trio who knows how an engine works. He’s also not one to elaborate.
‘Coolant pipe. Sheared off.’ Ah…
Frantic Googling. What’s the best option – breakdown truck, local fix, start walking… Occasionally, though, you just need a bit of old-fashioned luck. Turns out we’d parked up half a mile from a VW workshop – not a shiny glass palace of brand new cars but an actual garage, with functioning human beings complete with greasy hands. Cue a chap called Michael and a frankly superb bodge.
It’s unlikely Michael will ever read this – his English is as poor as my French – but the man needs towns and cities naming after him. Statues erecting in his honour. By hacking pipes off another car that was in for repair and with jubilee clips to hold it in place, we are on our way again. Three hours is all it costs us. The stress levels, though, refuse to return to normal. No one takes their eyes off the temperature gauge during the run to the ferry.
As we cross into the UK, the border guard eyes us suspiciously. Knackered and approaching a 23-hour day, we’re possibly not the best advert for a swift passage through customs. ‘What on earth are you lot doing in an Andorran-registered car?’
This could go badly wrong. I have the paperwork with me, but there’s always a slight doubt in your mind when anyone in authority gives you ‘the look’.
‘Well, officer, we’re importing it. We’ve driven it all the way back from Andorra because… well, because we’re idiots.’
‘Riiiight,’ comes the reply. Clearly he agrees and waves us on – my poor sense of humour and a healthier dose of stupidity, it seems, win the day.
Finally home. Given the months-long, drawn-out process to get here, it feels like bringing a puppy home for the first time. Will the children like it? How will it fit into our family unit? Is my wife going to shoot me? The Panda charm will need to be strong. But it’s such a tiny, characterful thing that it’s hard not to fall in love with it, even if it does gush petrol all over the driveway on its first night.
Now do it yourself: how to import a car to the UK from Europe
As with most things in life, it’s the paperwork that is the problem.
First, insurance. This very nearly caused the whole thing to be binned because it was nigh on impossible to persuade any UK insurer to cover the car, it being a foreign registered vehicle. I tried several companies, including (seriously) Lloyds of London, all to no avail. The Association of British Insurers explanation is that insurers are reluctant on the basis of scarcity of parts, different vehicle approval schemes in other parts of the world (the equivalent of the MOT) and a lack of claims data for the particular car. Fair points, but how much risk can there be for a €3000 Panda? Apparently specialists are available, but I never found one in several weeks of intensive searching.
In the end, it was WhatsApp to the rescue. Ray knew a local insurer in Spain who was prepared to cover it if I WhatsApped him the Fiat’s Andorran paperwork. €69 later, we were covered for the five-day trip north. Once you’re in the UK, VIN plate insurance will cover you to get to your MOT (book this before you get back).
Then, once you’re back in the UK, you need to officially import it by telling the government within 14 days of it arriving. A freight forwarding company is the easiest way, who will arrange for you to pay the VAT due on the car and fill out the relevant forms for Customs. That gives you a Notification Of Vehicle Arrivals (NOVA) that will then allow it to be registered with the DVLA, assuming it has passed its MOT.
On the journey itself, be very wary of breakdown cover. I took some out with the RAC but when we broke down, they wouldn’t come to our aid because ‘the car is not registered in the UK’.
Sadly, that’s the big takeaway from all this – a glorious Catch 22 of UK companies not wanting to know until it’s registered, while also being impossible to do so until it’s back on these shores.
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