Petite Pululu - a Haute Languedoc hideaway

by Mike Kingdom-Hockings

The original Pululu Farm is now an orphanage. Located between the Zambian Copperbelt town of Ndola and the border of what was then known as Zaire, by the time I became a regular visitor in 1992 it had become a precarious place to live.

Hiltrud and Jurgen Tiemann had built it up from raw bush over a period of seventeen years, and they loved it. But now when we walked their two small dogs around the 3km boundary before sunset Jurgen carried an automatic pistol in the waistband of his trousers. It might have made more sense for Hiltrud to carry it: she was the one who entered shooting competitions in her youth. To explain their caution, they showed me a two year old newspaper photograph of the pair of them, swathed in bandages like the Invisible Man, after a violent burglary.

Now, before locking up for the night, Jurgen would set his protective devices. Two wires, at neck and crotch heights, were connected to the 240 volt mains. A fine wire across the front of the carport was fastened to the trigger of a steel tube loaded with a 12-bore shotgun cartridge, aimed back along it. All windows were already behind razor wire.

The gate of the property was one kilometre from the house. Going home at night, I opened and closed it with my left hand, holding a large knife in my right. Thumb on the blade – strike upwards.

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Petite Pululu is peaceful. Find Lunas, just over the pass between Lodève and Bédarieux, inland from Montpellier. Turn off to pass through Joncels then make a 5km climb to the left along a cracked concrete farm road and descend a little to the hamlet of Valeyrac. Petite Pululu is the last of a group of stone houses on the left, looking down across the valley towards le Pont d’Orb and le Bousquet d’Orb.

Set back from the road, this skilfully renovated stone house includes two self-contained studio flats created from cellars and storerooms. In each, huge undressed stones break through the wall plaster in places, and the spaces between the ancient ceiling beams sweep upwards in shallow barrel vaulting. Shower and toilet are furnished with quality German chinaware. Rustic furniture faces past the lawn and across the valley, through multi-paned french windows.

At this altitude it can be cool in the morning, even in summer. Let the daylight wake you, then slip out in bare feet to feel the loneliness. Let breakfast wait until everything wakes up. Climb up the path to the plateau which forms the kitchen garden, and look away from the valley. Crane your neck towards the top of the ridge which forms the rear boundary of the property. Huge boulders are almost hidden by the dense covering of trees and undergrowth woven into the ever-steepening slope.

This is ideal mountain bike country, but those who prefer the simple life will also find walking a delight. Take the gravel road down through the forest towards le Pont d'Orb. On the right you will see a stone slab, dished, with a drainage channel at one end. Make up your own mind whether this was really a sacrificial altar in an earlier age.

Walk quietly. Keep your eyes and ears open. Small mammals and insects abound, and lizards sun themselves or flick their tongues at passing prey. Watch the ground. You may see a dozen caterpillars in crocodile formation, crossing the road as fast as their inchworm locomotion will allow. As they reach the ditch on the far side, they fall off the head of the line one by one and tumble helplessly down the steep slope. At the bottom, the line re-forms for the climb into the forest undergrowth. There must be a reason for the journey, but I can't see it. The vegetation looks the same on both sides of the road, and I thought butterflies and moths always took care to lay their eggs where the food was.

Hiltrud and Jurgen now dedicate their time to gardening, and to further renovations and additions to their buildings. As an old friend, I am privileged to revisit their collections of African art and rare maps, and to examine Jurgen's collection of moths and butterflies. We speak of old times, and even of their nearest neighbour, who was murdered a year after they left Ndola.

The last time I saw him, Jurgen was considering starting a collection of the local lepidoptera. This is their home now, and they are adjusting to it. But they still miss Africa.

=>Photos of Petite Pululu

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