Every morning a shepherd (no relation) would bring his musical heard of sheep within view of our small 4 room stone cottage near Evoramonte, Portugal.The music that we heard wasn't the bleating of the sheep. They were quiet. Instead it was the clanging of the mellifluous bells that hung around their necks, which chimed in a multitude of tones.This was no performance for tourists. It was instead part of the rhythm of rural Portuguese life. For the two traveling Shephards, it was magical.