Page 5
It the prénomme Cup. It is rather affectionate in its mouth. Because it is in Limoges that they met in a store of porcelain crockery where he was immediately subjugated by the finesse of his face.
And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed. I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us.
The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then: - Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens... We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends...
- Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ... It the prénomme Cup. It is rather affectionate in its mouth. Because it is in Limoges that they met in a store of porcelain crockery where he was immediately subjugated by the finesse of his face. And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed. I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us. The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then:
- Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens... We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends... - Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ... It the prénomme Cup. It is rather affectionate in its mouth. Because it is in Limoges that they met in a store of porcelain crockery where he was immediately subjugated by the finesse of his face. And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed. I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us. The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then: - Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens...
We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends... - Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ... It the prénomme Cup. It is rather affectionate in its mouth. Because it is in Limoges that they met in a store of porcelain crockery where he was immediately subjugated by the finesse of his face. And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed. I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us. The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then: - Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens... We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends... - Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ... It the prénomme Cup. It is rather affectionate in its mouth. Because it is in Limoges that they met in a store of porcelain crockery where he was immediately subjugated by the finesse of his face. And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed.
I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us. The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then: - Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens... We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends... - Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ...
And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed. I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us.
The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then: - Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens... We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends...
- Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ... It the prénomme Cup. It is rather affectionate in its mouth. Because it is in Limoges that they met in a store of porcelain crockery where he was immediately subjugated by the finesse of his face. And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed. I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us. The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then:
- Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens... We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends... - Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ... It the prénomme Cup. It is rather affectionate in its mouth. Because it is in Limoges that they met in a store of porcelain crockery where he was immediately subjugated by the finesse of his face. And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed. I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us. The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then: - Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens...
We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends... - Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ... It the prénomme Cup. It is rather affectionate in its mouth. Because it is in Limoges that they met in a store of porcelain crockery where he was immediately subjugated by the finesse of his face. And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed. I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us. The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then: - Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens... We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends... - Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ... It the prénomme Cup. It is rather affectionate in its mouth. Because it is in Limoges that they met in a store of porcelain crockery where he was immediately subjugated by the finesse of his face. And then primarily because he loves the tea. Cup is accustomed.
I am Merlinéa Immortal, guardian of the secrets of the small people. My children: fairies, goblins and other farfadets... For the summer season guests can, according to my good want, find me along the Eure in the old Chartres, between the collegiate church of Saint André and the church of St Pierre. For those who do not know, Chartres is located at the location of the legendary forest of the Carnutes, famous for its meetings of the Druids. We are on 1 May, it is the feast of Baltane, only time of the year during which the world of mortals can see us. The period is ideal, the lights of Chartres fighting their full and the magic operates. I must, during this night, choose the one that will have the privilege to be my partner. It should be without fasteners, have the pure heart and an open mind. My hunting ground: the Cathedral.... I like to melt in the stained glass of Our Lady of the beautiful canopy or blank blue, I can see without be view and this choice is not trivial, the secret so highly coveted the blue of Chartres belongs to me and it is the color of my eyes. What I can tell you: it is a subtle mixture of alchemy and ancestral techniques. The unconditional love that I door to this building is the key. A young man, the 30 style dark archaeologist, sure of its charm, stops in front of the stained glass, it is subjugated by the intensity of the gaze of Our Lady and has the impression that it looks at it. To me it does not see... Not yet. Has astride on its dashboard or immersed up to the head. Misty eyes that secure the horizon. We are here, turned to the ocean which is lost there, at the end of the world. The atmosphere is unique, the calming silence. It is the expectation. The wave, which generates all of us in the same impatience, the same quiver inside. Has the water, we do that a. It is very difficult to differentiate us from each other, both our silhouettes are the same. A cloud of midges. In long board, in "biscuit" or simply with a pair of fins. The major part of the time spent in the water boils down to wait and observe. Scrutinize the conduct of waves, their location, consider the banks of sand... All the paradox of a society that lives to a hundred at the time, without never stop, without never take the time. Take the time. I think it is. Then we expect. "Do not see thou nothing come? I do not see that the sun which poudroie" said the other. A snow layer of 1,5m approximately covers in a uniform manner throughout the surrounding landscape. Only a few conifers are emerging here and there, at the discretion of rare Combes shallow. Our guide walk of a good not, the help of his compass in moments of doubt. No road or trail is apparent. In this White Desert, the top of the rare frosted panels appear on the approach of farms that all seem to uninhabited. The plan outside Sec is triggered since three days in the Department and only a few rotations of ravitaillant helicopters hamlets isolated come to disturb the heavy silence that surrounds us. Fourth day of our snowshoeing... The day was so beautiful: sky of a pure Azur, a rare blue, powdery snow, the crystals of which sparkled in the sun. We are all in intense communion with this two-color nature: white and blue to the Infinite. Feeling of being alone in the world, a sleek world slag of any civilization. We arrive in view of the hamlet where we must be welcomed. Our not be done more in a hurry. The gaze is door with acute on the Houses caussenardes Tapies near the bridge, in the shelter of a small hill. The snow padded and the deep silence are always there. A vertical smoke rises from the chimney of a house and spreads high in the sky. You can feel the smell of burned wood if characteristic the winter in the campaigns. The decor is in place presaging a warm evening with the fire, when - soon - The night will have any invaded. Arrived at the entry of the hamlet buried under the snow, we stop, petrified... The main track sharing site that offers a spectacle of horror. The snow that covers the spotted is long red streaks, bloody, splashes of scarlet speckle the lower sides! The whole of the road is soiled... No noise, not a soul. Each of us feels a growing pressure is tightening its stomach. The ambient silence becomes even more cumbersome, more weighing, oppressive. We are approaching some long furrows purple and our observation leaves no doubt: blood! Our guide Whisper then: - Madam Laffont lives in the House in the center of the Hamlet... Will there!! A melee concern of terror invades us. We are moving slowly, all our meaning to the Lookout. This is the house, built of granite, at the roof of "Les Lauzes", a few steps, the door... that opens... We discover then an unexpected scene. Five or six people, or perhaps more, all smile, we welcome with the force exclamations, major Cree, laughter, in a room overheated, enlightened sparingly. We are entering in a way unreal in a genre scene evoking the Table of Van Gogh, "Potato Eaters". Two women operate a sort of Moulinette where fate of the sausage, two men crowded neighborhoods of meat on the table from the farm, and at the bottom of the room the others drink a coffee in discussing. - We have killed the pig today, you arrive well, one ends... - Uh... and everything this blood outside in the street... What happened? - Ah, it?... Somebody gave the remnants of meat to the dogs and they are scattered everywhere like crazy in trainant songs for quiet dining, each in his corner. Too busy, it is not released today. Nothing was seen. It is IF impressive? ...
Published on Wednesday, December 27 2017 by kamel ouati