Bruno thirsty. Very thirsty. And when he misses beer Bruno can quickly become very vindictive.
In the distance, beyond the terrace, I fixed the sea calmed down curiously at the inlet of the lost valley. Puffins fly around in their livery of red clown nose, giving the sun the small pieces of silver fish they return it to their nest on the cliff Latrabjarg. Most left last week for the great migration. Remain only a few or a few lame stunned.
Here the sand is white, unlike the other beaches weirs of black basaltic lava coming lunar volcanoes vomit at the feet of the fjords. On the right, at the edge of invading the grassy beach, lies like a jewel dropped, the small cemetery where sleep the son and daughter of Magnus. Died at sea on a winter evening. Isolated by a ditch, an embankment and a wall, the block of stone that protects the effigies not perish twice under the icy slap of waves.
Silence is awesome. One hears nothing but Bruno and three sheepdogs howling, tied to their stakes by setting off the sheep that graze on the steep cliffs.
must say that is at the end of the world here. The most in Western Europe I repeated the shepherd boy who plays with Somi, the largest of the three big dogs, stroking the birth of his neck fleece black and white. Isolated so that the hotel was once a place of detention for recalcitrant children.
On the small chapel in the grassy roof, play two murres with their black masks.
Magnus's mother is hilarious. If Jason wants me personally it's because of her. She has just stick a can of beer in his hand a half full. Viking Sterkur of light blonde, slightly alcoholic. Bruno's favorite.
Bruno sent me shots of legs and head butts. He wants his beer. Bottles or cans no matter where it has drunkenness. If his mother had not abandoned at birth to run graze the cliffs with his cousins all black and white, Bruno would not be an alcoholic.
