Gay Cruisingrosevilleca

Flower 18 .- Corona - Part I

Friends, I am weaving a crown of flowers for my daughter, white and mauve, to a very special occasion ... I show you a preview of different roses.

still missing leaves and then give way ... I love the purple that's why we joined more than a few taps.

Greetings

Lorenaqp

Gay Cruise Spots , Ny

17 .- Pelluhue, seventh region, Chile. My house

Hello friends, I went to the beach, very beautiful day, clear and sunny. I leave some photos of Pelluhue is a very pretty cove, located in the Maule region, the trip was quite long, a lot of congestion ... but worth it ... the scenery is wonderful .

This lock is a collector ... I would like for me, I loved it so much I could not resist taking a picture, the little hand is on my husband ... lol

Among the rocks you can see some species of native flora ...

Phycella ignea

Añañuca

Bipinnula fimbriata

Orquídea chilena

María Victoria

Mi hija la más linda flor

Son   especies hermosas   y de gran  valor ornamental.

Disfrutenlas!!!

Saludos

Lorenaqp

What Causes A Deep Ach In My Legs

As trust me I want to show feeling in some corners of my house ... little by little ... I like enough to create small spaces, try to put flowers and branches of shrubs in my garden.
sometimes do not last long because my 4 year old daughter does not allow ...

My roses have sprouted, just publish the flowers bloom for the garden fanatics tell them that in addition to all the madness of crochet too am an agronomist, so I can imagine how much I like flowers especially roses , I love the wonderful Araucanian park rose garden ... any you have visited??

Hope you like ...

Lorenaqp

How Much Can Josh Huctherson Pick Up

16 .- 15 .- A Lanit store ... spring is coming and

It's time to save the fat tissue to remove poleritas of cotton and yarn ... so before I show my winter poncho ... the poor and he's off ...

This summer linen shirt think I can still use it ... the tummy will tell ...

Greetings to all weavers crocheteras!

Lorenaqp

38 Weeks And Whit Disgare

Mediterranean

Tie a boat in the rain, the gray atmosphere of a Mediterranean port, stirs a melancholy sometimes singular. This is what happens today. No sun reverberate on the white walls of buildings, and water was behind in the mouth, not cobalt blue at noon, and sunset is the color of red wine which slid backlight, once , black ships with eyes painted on the bow. The sea is green ash; the sky, low and dirty. Dark clouds drop a gentle rain dripping through the rigging and furled sails, and soak the teak deck. There is not even wind.

You say the ropes and go down to the dock, walking slowly between the boats still. Getting wet. On days like today, the fallout from a vague sadness, vague. It suggests the end of voyage, ships locked in their ropes, bollards and bollards. In men who turn their backs to the sea, down the road, forced inland to age, remembering. This moisture misty improper place and season, afflicts as a hunch, or a certainty. And as you leave the dock you can not avoid thinking about the countless sailors who one day away from a boat last time. Also, by contrast, feel nostalgia for the flash of light and blue salt and roasted young skin in the sun, the sound of surf, the smell of smoke from fires made of driftwood on the wet sand, deserted beaches and rocks carved by the patient surge. Memory times. Of men and women. Yourself, perhaps, when you were also other. when studying the eyes of adventure sea, in ports only foresaw immense oceans and islands which never reached court orders to search and arrest, and were still far from seeing the world as you do today, looking forward no more than your past.

The Navy relic bar centuries, sentenced to death by local speculation, "Rafa, owner, handle anchovies and sardines. On one side of the bar there are three men who drink wine and smoke, next to the window through which they look, from afar, the boats parked side by side in the next spring, next to the auction. All three have the same skin toasted and cracked with wrinkles as chopping knife, rough and masculine air, look gray and pouring rain outside, rough hands and dried in cold water, salt, fishing lines, nets and longlines. One of them was seen a tattoo on a forearm, half hidden by the shirt, a woman awkwardly drawn, faded by the sun and years. Recorded suppose, when a tattooed Mar, prison, military, whoring "still meant something more than a fad or a whim. Of where that mark on the skin hinted a biography. A unique story, cloudy at times, to tell. Or shut up.

No wonder almost, Rafa puts in the zinc counter a plate of grilled anchovies, nearly a foot high, and a glass of wine. "What a long dog" he said resignedly. And you nod while drinking a sip of wine and you get to the mouth, holding it with your fingers and trying not to drip over the goo, an anchovy, nibbling from head to tail to stop scraped clean. And suddenly, the strong fish flavor with just a drop of oil, made on a hot plate, the texture of the meat and the skin churruscada that emerges between the fingers clean paper towel, printed with an anchor the name of the bar before taking the glass of wine to take it to his lips, fire echoes of the old memory, tastes and smells associated with the nearby sea, now veiled in gray and gloomy, browning on grilled fish, boats stranded on the sand, red wine, white candles in the distance, on line and blue light. Such images make their way as if your life and your memories someone had a curtain drawn back and the familiar landscape was there again, sharp as ever. And you understand that the mist suddenly dripping in your heart is just an isolated incident, minimum anecdote in a sea of \u200b\u200binfinite time eternal, and that in reality everything is still there despite the brick, the stupidity, forgetfulness, to barbarism, the dirty gray haze. The flavor of anchovies and sardines that Rafa in the bar handle is identical to know who, for nine or ten thousand years, and this inland sea sailing, uterus of what we were and what we are. Traders transporting wine, oil, vines, marble, lead, silver, words and alphabets. Warriors expunged cities that rocking horse and then, if they survived, returned to Ithaca under a sky of gods depopulated lucidity. Born ancestors fought and died assuming the rules learned from this sea wise and impassive. So on days like this, it is comforting to know that the old home is still intact on the other side of the rain.

Pat Corso Arturo Perez-Reverte

Thank you so much love
ninth Francisco