The gentle ringing of the bells accompanied the summer snacks after a long day of working in full sun, gathering stones and pulling herbs. After running uphill and downhill with food for the cattle, it was time to sit round, around a basin full of tunos, caught at dawn. Pedro had a big, fat cane with a slit at one end. Inside he had put a stone that was held by the pressure inside the reed and by the string that held it tight from the outside. With that spinning wheel he was collecting the most beautiful tunos, one by one. Most of the time he would improvise a broom with broom branches or with altabaca and sweep them until they were without spikes. Then I peeled them to keep them in a bucket inside the cooler cave. The smallest of the three girls had come forward and grabbed a white tuno that stood out among so many red ones. They were his favorites. Her sisters didn't care because they were already enjoying the taste of the hillside tunos, mixed with gofio de millo. A little bird chirped answering the bell tower that flooded with its music from the bottom of the ravine.
