As Miss Webb might have put it:

‘If a crow was to fly, say, over Trevethin Wood, around Abergavenny and up through Pendulas to Ledingford, much quicker it would be than going via Glasgow, wouldn’t it?’

And, of course it would have been, but Glasgow, and in particular the University, was my way of going to Ledingford. In retrospect, it was a very formative way and my valley mind, like the narrow mountain roads, was broadened into motorway proportions.

In due course I passed for grammar school, played Rugby, sang in the choir, acted in the school play and worked hard at physics and chemistry. But it was biology that I enjoyed most. No need for calculators or computers, for thought was relatively uncluttered. Those were the days of dogfish, frog and rabbit; of basic dissection and labelled diagrams, in a simple quest to find out how things worked. This simplicity was invaluable in moulding my future feelings for animals, helping to avoid the danger that modern methods and technology can spread of regarding living things as insensitive units of production or exploitation.

National Service was a legacy of the War, and unless one was able to secure one of the few places allocated to school leavers, it was the army first.

I was very fortunate in being granted a place at Glasgow.

There were seven university colleges teaching veterinary science at the time. London and Edinburgh were the oldest and most popular, then followed Glasgow and Liverpool, the two newest being Bristol and Cambridge. There was also a college in Dublin that I once visited on a Rugby tour. We spent most of the trip at the Guinness Brewery and at the time I thought how grand it would have been to study there.

But it was Glasgow that would have me and Glasgow I accepted. I didn’t know what I was going into — and they certainly didn’t know what they were getting. But it worked out all right for both of us in the end.

When I arrived at Central Station on that foggy October night, it was like entering a vast oil drum — dark, smelly and smoky.

Abergranog was sometimes dark and smelly, and often the wicked Welsh mist came down, embalming the valley in its cold, invisible breath. Yet, when it parted, hedgerows and trees would ghost silently into view. But the Glasgow fog was green, evil and penetrating and when it parted — there was just more fog.

Suddenly I missed the Trevethin Wood and Little Pant, the Park and even the Avon Llwyd. As the taxi rattled over the cobbled streets and bodged across the tram lines I spied Glaswegian bodies shuffling through the gloom, I felt rather lonely and wondered how that environment could ever mould me into a country vet.

But over the next five years I was to discover a Celtic warmth and companionship in that city and to come to understand how Sir Harry Lauder could sing with such feeling ‘I belong tae Glasgae’.

I found my digs and the following day saw the University at Gilmorehill. As I walked through Kelvingrove Park, the frostchilled mist gradually cleared and the towers and pinnacles of the great building took form. As I drew closer, the grand symmetry of its design became apparent, a monument to five hundred years of industry and learning.

The awe-inspiring sight lifted my depression and I knew that I had come to the right place.

Five years was and still is a long time to study for a career and be supported to achieve it. Financial assistance was not as generous as it is today and many parents, my own included, made considerable sacrifices to keep their offspring at university. Student life was poor but happy.

But the long course did have one peculiar advantage, in that the student not only learned to be a veterinary surgeon, but gradually grew into one.

In the very beginning, however, the incentive to join the profession and the urge to ease animal pain and suffering could, despite even the deepest enthusiasm, be severely shaken by the anatomy classes. The first time I entered the Dissection Hall I was silently shocked.

I knew that, in order to discover how animals were built, they were best studied by taking them apart, piece by piece. After all, I’d done it with dogfish, frog and rabbit. But I wasn’t prepared for the sight of large animal cadavers arranged in peculiar poses like plasticine models, grey, stodgy and in various stages of undress.

There were horses, skinned and lying on their backs, feet pointed rigidly to the ceiling; cows of indeterminable breed stripped of muscle so that the light shone through gaunt frames; from assorted tables sheep and pig heads gazed forlornly into space and, at the far end of the Hall, was positioned a large preserving tank — when I cautiously peered over the rim I discovered it to be full of failed greyhounds. Above, ran great gantries with pulley chains to assist the manipulation of the bodies, while fixed upon the walls were gaily coloured gazetteers of nerve pathways, bloodvessel patterns and bone structures. The whole room, though brightly lit, had a stifling atmosphere tainted with the pungent aroma of formalin that made the eyes smart, the stomach uneasy and the palms moist.

Becoming a vet was taking a bit of getting used to, but in due course I became acclimatised and involved in tracing the intricate pathways of arteries and veins, following nerve supplies and locating the attachments of ligaments and muscles; I came to regard specimens, like the horse, as a system of pulleys that ate hay, rather than a dead body.

There was much to learn about other species as well as the horse. Cow, pig, sheep, dog, cat and even fowl were studied. This comparative anatomy made me envy the human medical students who, with some slight variations, always had their specimens with them. I felt this made it much easier to appreciate kidney pain, indigestion or skin rashes in their patients than to understand how a cow feels when its five stomachs are aching, which joint hurts in a lame horse or what an itch in fur, wool or feathers feels like. I often wondered if cows got headaches and whether it would be possible to prove it.

* * *

So far I had seen no sick or ailing animals. In fact, the pre-clinical years were entirely devoted to the study of normality, for without that, the abnormal could in no way be truly appreciated. But if I had learnt anything up until then, it was about the intricate balance and harmony that exists in every living being, even in such humble creatures as the barnyard fowl.

And it was in the barnyards of the Vale of Usk that I spent my summer vacations during those first years. It was most essential to obtain as much background and experience in agriculture as possible, and working on the farms was the best way to get it.

One of my most memorable experiences actually occurred in a barnyard, on the very first day I started work at Brynheulog Farm.

Brynheulog, which when translated means ‘the hill where the sun shines’, was aptly named. It consisted of a compact group of whitewashed stone buildings, situated upon a rising fold of ground at the foot of the roundshouldered Blorenge Mountain that overlooked Abergavenny.

It was a family farm, running a small mixed dairy herd, pigs, sheep, ducks and chickens, and growing enough corn and roots to feed the stock. There was an orchard with both sweet and sour fruit, a pond with coots and a pine wood full of soft cooing wood-pigeons. The farmhouse was lowbeamed and cosy, the dairy flagstoned and cool, and the fascinating lavatory was a small hut at the bottom of the garden. Fascinating to me because it had two seats — suggesting a joint venture I found difficult to imagine.

David Morgan, a small intense Welshman, had taken me on as general hand for the summer.

‘Just goin’ off on the round,’ he said curtly, through the van window, when I met him in the lane. For every Monday he took cream, eggs, potatoes and other produce up to Llanavon at the top of the next valley, where he sold his wares from door to door. ‘You go and give Dicko a hand. He’s my man an’ he’s putting the barn ready — he knows you’re coming.’ He gave a wave and revved the engine; the old Austin spluttered and jerked off down the track.

I faced Brynheulog, the sun sparkling on its whitewashed walls, and, with a rich mixture of country aromas in my nostrils, set forth to find Dicko.

I had no idea where the barnyard was, but after going through the cowhouse, into the roothouse and out by the stables, I found it. It was cobbled and part covered in seeded corn, and on a neatly stacked midden in the far corner about twenty Rhode Island hens squabbled and scratched with great vigour. To the left, a Dutch barn ran in continuation with the farm buildings, one of the bays still stacked with the previous year’s fodder.

Apart from the hens and a wall-eyed collie dog eyeing me suspiciously through the bars of the gate, there was no sign of life.

‘Dicko!’ I shouted. ‘Are you there?’

I stood for a few minutes awaiting a response. Then, I shouted again.

The second time, I did get a reaction.

‘D’yer know anything about chickens, Mr Vet?’ a voice bellowed from above.

Startled, I looked upwards and stood back a pace to discover a round, red face peering down at me from the gap between the high stack and the barn roof.

‘D’yer know anything about chickens?’ the face repeated, beginning to deepen in colour.

‘I’ve done some anatomy,’ I responded rather weakly, still a bit confused by the turn of events.

‘Wha’s wrong with this, then?’ asked the red face, and dropped an egg from his lofty position down to me. Instinctively I cupped my hands and caught it, the shell shattering in a dozen pieces, and from the mess came the foulest smell I have ever encountered. I stood there, rigid, as the green-black, stinking contents oozed malevolently between my fingers.

‘It’s rotten!’ I shouted, half choking.

‘Right!’ roared the red face, in a gale of laughter. ‘Right yer be! That must be a hell of a fine college you be at!’

I threw the egg in the midden and plunged both hands deep into the water trough. I was livid and clenched my fists — whoever owned the red face was in trouble.

‘I’m comin’ down,’ came a shout, still full of raucous laughter.

I moved to the corner of the stack, burning with anger, poising myself ready to take revenge.

Then the Red Face emerged.

He was shorter than I, but that was my only advantage, for he was built like an ox; his cheery red face, topped by a hayseed-covered cap, ran directly into his broad shoulders, which could have supported the Llanellen Bridge. About forty, hair flowed luxuriant from his open-necked flannel shirt and his moleskin trousers were gathered at his solid midriff by a wide, black leather belt, joined by a powerful brass buckle.

Had this not been enough to make me reconsider my original intention, the thickness of his forearms and the breadth of his horny hands soon made up my mind. My anger quickly subsided.

‘No offence, Mr Vet. Just a lark. Dicko Jeeps is the name. Now, try a drop o’ this.’ And he thrust a small earthenware jar into my hands. ‘Don’ be frit of it, it ain’t rotten,’ he said, his face still wreathed in a smile. ‘I won’t pull yer leg no more.’

It was good cider in the little jar, and not the last I was to have from it, for that summer I worked alongside the genial countryman and learned much about country ways.

One morning I found Dicko mixing up an evil-looking potion in an old jug. It smelled quite intoxicating and Dicko stirred away with the obvious delight of an ancient witch mixing a brew.

‘Us be ’avin’ a party tonight. You comin’?’ he asked, jovially.

‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘It looks awful.’

‘Old Jasper’s bound up,’ explained Dicko. ‘So I’m makin’ a drop o’ “special” for ’im. By rights you ought to be seein’ ter this, Mr Vet,’ he winked, broadly, then stirred the mixture with renewed vigour.

Jasper was the Large White boar, a great, mean, hairy creature who lived in a part of the stable building, just off the yard.

‘Won’t eat or drink an’s got real miserable,’ said Dicko. ‘Right off ’is jim-jam, too, ’e is — if yer know what I means.’ He gave another wicked wink.

‘Whatever is in it?’ I asked, as the alcoholic aroma wafted towards me.

‘Salts an’ cider, with a little bit of castor oil. ‘An’ if that don’t shift ’im, nothin’ will!’

‘I can believe that,’ I agreed. ‘But if he isn’t eating or drinking, how are you going to give it to him?’

‘How are we goin’ ter give it to ’im, Mr Vet,’ said Dicko, rubbing his hands. ‘Bring that jow’line and I’ll get me boot.’

I picked up the thin ploughrope and made my way out to the stable where Dicko joined me, carefully setting down the jugful of medicine and an old riding boot with the toe cut away.

Jasper lay grunting unconcernedly in the straw in one corner, as Dicko explained his plan.

‘I slips the noose of the jow’line round ’is snout an’ throws it over that beam,’ he said, pointing to a rough oak strut running under the roof. ‘You catch it an’ pull up, hard as you can, then ’e’ll back up against the wall an’ I can stuff the boot down ’is gullet an’ pour the jollop through the toe, an’ Bob’s yer uncle!’

It sounded straightforward enough, so long as Jasper was in agreement. He soon showed he wasn’t as the noose tightened around his snout, and leaped to his feet complaining loudly. I grabbed the loose end that Dicko hurled over the beam and pulled for all I was worth. Jasper fought and wriggled, causing the beam to creak ominously.

‘’Old ’im steady!’ shouted Dicko, advancing upon the great foaming jaws with the boot in one hand and jug in the other. But Jasper would have none of it. Eventually, he gave in to the rope and stood still, but whenever Dicko touched his mouth with the lip of the boot, he shook his head violently.

‘No good from the front,’ said Dicko. ‘I’ll get behind his head an’ pull it in from the back.’

‘Are you sure you can manage it?’ I asked, doubtfully. ‘Sounds a bit dangerous.’

‘Seen it done afore,’ retorted Dicko. ‘Jus’ you ’old that rope tight. I’ll show yer summat to tell ’em back at that college of your’n.’

With boot and jug in hand, he straddled the boar’s neck and leaned forward. Jasper squatted a few inches to take Dicko’s weight, then pushed robustly against the rope.

‘Don’ yer let go now!’ gasped Dicko, trying to keep his balance.

‘I won’t!’ I shouted.

Then, suddenly, an evil thought entered my mind and the smell of rotten eggs came flooding back. For there was Dicko, who had had such fun at my expense on my first day at Brynheulog, now sitting with his back to me, astride a great pig. And the only thing stopping him from going for one hell of a ride was the rope — which I was holding.

I was savouring the power in my possession, when Jasper made a sudden jerk and my arms fell as the rope went slack. I stumbled back against the wall, only to see Dicko, firmly astride Jasper, charge the stable door which sprang open, releasing the flying duo onto the yard.

I recovered quickly and followed them out to witness one of the finest Bucking Boar Exhibitions one could wish to see, as Dicko, raving like a dervish and still brandishing the boot and jug, rode Jasper around the yard.

Eventually, after about five circuits, they parted company and Dicko was deposited in a patch of docks by the water trough.

I stood, trying to contain my mirth, as Dicko scrambled to his feet.

‘Rope snapped!’ I said, holding up the frayed end. ‘Sorry!’

‘You looks as sorry as ’e does,’ commented Dicko grumpily as he picked up his cap and looked at Jasper. The old boar seemed perfectly recovered and was tucking into the potato clamp with great energy.

‘He’s eating now,’ I said, just suppressing a smile.

‘Told yer it would work, didn’t’ I?’ said Dicko, dusting down his moleskins.

Then, he gave one of his famous winks and said, ‘Where’s me flamin’ bottle?’ And we both burst out laughing.

During that summer Dicko taught me how to turn a sheep, tack up a cart horse, mix feed, tell good corn from bad, know when a cow was ‘slacking’ to calve or spot a beast not ‘doing’. He taught me how to observe with a countryman’s eye and follow the signs of nature.

There was one point of observation for which I shall particularly remember Dicko. We had been slaving all morning to dig a post-hole for the gateway leading from the cow pasture onto the canal lane. From the spot where we were working the land fell away gently, presenting a superb view of the countryside, right down to the river several miles away. Dicko, bare to the waist, his torso glistening with sweat, was resting with his weight on his shovel, when down the lane came a smartly dressed young man with a giggling little blonde on his arm.

Dicko touched his cap and said, ‘Goodmorning.’

‘Digging a hole for that post, eh!’ commented the young gentleman, rather snootily.

Dicko nodded.

The young man stepped gingerly forward and peered over the edge.

‘Not quite deep enough,’ he said, after some consideration.

Dicko straightened up on his shovel and I tensed, wondering what was coming next.

‘An ’ow would you be knowin’ that, then?’ asked Dicko, slowly.

‘I could be wrong,’ replied the young man, with a cocky smile. ‘I’m only a civil engineer, but I’m pretty sure that hole is too shallow.’

‘Come along, darling,’ said the girl. ‘Don’t stop the men working.’ Then she gave a little gasp. ‘Oh, look!’ she said, suddenly. ‘Down there. That cow — why hasn’t it got any horns?’

The young man turned and looked in the direction she was pointing: to an animal grazing near the larch wood, two fields away.

‘I say, my dear chap,’ he said, turning to Dicko, who was still leaning on his shovel. ‘You can see it. Tell me, why hasn’t that cow got any horns?’

I was just about to blurt out a comment, when Dicko caught my eye.

‘Well, sir,’ he began, slowly, ‘there be many reasons why cows don’t ’ave horns. Some cows is born without ’em. Some cows gets ’em knocked off. And with some cows, we cuts ’em off. But that animal down there ain’t got horns for a different reason.’

‘Oh,’ said the young man. ‘Tell me, now. Why is that?’

‘Well, sir, I may be wrong,’ said Dicko, leaning forward and lowering his tone rather confidentially. ‘I’m only a country bloke, but I’m pretty sure that cow down there is a ’orse!’

That summer at Brynheulog was one of the happiest of my life and, although the prospect of returning to the fog and grime of a Glasgow winter was daunting, my appetite for a country life had been well and truly whetted.

* * *

Back in Glasgow, I changed my digs and went to live in a small ‘semi’ in Anniesland, which I shared with a pal of mine. Our landlady and her longsuffering husband had been in service to some gentry in Argyll and had returned to the city to retire. Mrs Maddox treated Jack and me like gentry too, even though we could afford little and her budget was slim. But she was kindness itself, and often when we came in from our studies, cold and wet, she would make us a tonic she called ‘Bosun’s Cream’. It looked not unlike Dicko’s jollop and consisted of milk, whisky, some spice and a raw egg. Mrs Maddox would stand over us, until we, not wishing to offend her by refusing, had consumed the slimy beverage.

‘Do you’se like it?’ she would ask, topping up our glasses. I would nod and say it was very good, adding, ‘It’s Jack’s favourite.’ And Jack, who could only just keep the concoction down, would give me hell when we got up to our room.

Mrs Maddox was a diminutive lady, neat as a new pin and with a heart of gold, but she had one slight weakness: she loved a ‘wee flutter’.

Twice a week found her at the greyhound track, all on her own, amongst the roughs and toughs of the city, and nearly always she came back with the same tale.

‘There I was,’ she would begin, as she took off her hat and carefully removed the long spiky pin. ‘There I was, marking my card. An’ I thought I’d do three and two and four and seven reversed, when this man came and stood in front of me. “What are you’se doing?” asked I. “Five and three and one and six reversed, dearie,” says he. He seemed ever so nice, so I changed — and what do you’se think?’ Mrs Maddox would stand, her coat half off, waiting for our response which invariably came in unison.

‘Three and two and four and seven reversed, came up!’

‘Ay, it did!’ she would say, shaking her head. ‘I should never have listened to that useless fellow.’ Completely forgetting that it was her fault for being nosey.

Occasionally she got it right and would be beaming like a little sun when she arrived home. But she rarely brought her winnings, for she would have spent them at the shops where she would buy a chicken for the following day’s dinner.

‘A wee treat,’ she would say.

Which is probably another reason why I shall always regard roast chicken as something rather special.

Part of the Autumn term was spent under the tuition of the great Professor Bardsley, known affectionately as the Bomber, for if one was unfortunate enough to incur his displeasure he was apt to come down on his victim swiftly and from a great height, with devastating effect.

At his first lecture he stood before us, dressed sombrely but immaculately in a black suit with tie to match, his shoes sparkling in the lecture room lights. His most distinguishing feature was a mat of heavily greased black hair, topping a sallow complexion and hooked nose that combined to give him the appearance of an up-market funeral director — which was quite apt, considering his subject.

‘Pathology!’ he boomed. ‘From the Greek! Pathos — suffering! Logos — discourse!’

Then he lowered his tone and, in the manner of Talfyn Thomas, Chief Warden of Abergranog, hissed:

‘Gentlemen, I am going to teach you about suffering!’

I never forgot it.

But the learned Professor led us through the pathways of death and decay carefully and with dignity. He taught that disease and degeneration were not to be regarded as terrible enemies, but part of life’s natural pattern of reaction and response. With this understanding, the clinician was more able to control the conditions and appreciate that, ultimately, even death was part of the orderly but irrevocable process.

But when the Professor did adopt his ‘Bomber’ tactics, he could reduce anyone by verbal barrage to a heap of dust. For me, his most memorable tirade, after questioning a poor student who never seemed to get anything right, came when in exasperation the Bomber threw up his arms and roared: ‘A million sperms and one of them had to be you!’

But if Pathology was a ‘dead’ subject, Materia Medica was quite lively fun. Due to some staffing problems at the college, we commenced the subject with lectures given by a temporary tutor, a jovial little Irishman who astounded us on the first day with his opening remarks:

‘Materia Medica used to be a lot of balls!’

He grinned mischievously and, having seen that his comment had achieved the desired effect, qualified it by saying: ‘Horse balls, of course. Balls for coughs. Balls for water. Balls for blood. Balls to stop and balls to start — like I said …’ he peered over the top of his half-rimmed spectacles in anticipation of the inevitable chorus that dutifully arose from the class:

‘JUST A LOT OF BALLS!’

In fact, the 1950s were seeing a tremendous change in human and animal therapy, with the advent of antibiotics and drugs in injectable form. We were probably some of the last students to learn the practicalities of pharmacy and were taught how to make pills, pack powders and prepare medicines from ingredients whose names suggested hidden powers and mysterious potency: Kamala, Male Fern, Croton Oil and Sweet Spirit of Nitre.

When the drench or the draught was prepared, each one could be tailor-made for the patient, with a bit of this and a touch of that, all mixed freshly and presented, corked and labelled, in a great glass bottle. Far more impressive than a few millilitres of colourless liquid quickly injected under the skin.

The instructions for administration were also far more picturesque. ‘A wineglassful to be given in a pint of old ale, morning and night.’ ‘Mix thoroughly in a pint of gruel’ or ‘Dilute with a quart of spring water.’

We were being taught the art and science of veterinary medicine and I think that in the presentation of their treatments, the old veterinarians extolled the art to the full.

Another subject I found most fascinating was the study of parasites — worms, flukes, ticks, fleas and countless minute beings that, by their natural ingenuity, were able to exist, feed and reproduce by courtesy of some unsuspecting animal body. Of course, they contributed nothing towards the well-being of their hosts, and the damage they created caused loss of condition and even death as a result, but still, the complexity of their existence could not be discarded lightly.

There were so many uninvited guests in the animal world — the horse bots that could live quite happily in the stomach without themselves being digested, or the warble fly whose larva burrowed through the skin on a cow’s hoof and migrated through the tissues until it reached the back, where it rested through the winter, breathing through a small hole which it made between the hairs.

While the parasites may have been insignificant in appearance, many of them rejoiced in names of such grandeur that in some cases they defied pronunciation. There was a minute stomach worm of the horse, four millimetres long, called Paranplocephala mamillana, its name longer than its body. A midge, only a millimetre bigger, known as Phlebotomus papatasii. And it’s quite amazing how some of these names, despite their complexity, can hang on in the memory. There was a small mite found only in Japan, called Trombicula akamushi, that was responsible for a disease called Tsutsugamushi Disease — why I remember it, I do not know and whether this obscure fact will ever be any use to me is doubtful, to say the least. But the student mind functions in weird and wonderful ways and mine was no exception.

* * *

By now, the grounding that we had been given over the previous three years was beginning to gel, so that the structure and function of animals, bacteria and parasites, and their inter-relationships, were becoming clearer. The effects of the available medicines and the value of correct diets had been investigated, but still we had not been let loose on real live animals and indeed, before we were, there was one other important part of the veterinary education that had to be undertaken.

Seeing animals in specially designed veterinary teaching hospitals is an admirable way of demonstrating how disease should be diagnosed and prevented or treated. But applying the art and science of veterinary medicine under more natural conditions, such as windswept fields, dimly lit barns, kitchen tables or small surgeries, can be vastly different. In order, therefore, to obtain the correct balance, the vacations now had to be spent with a veterinary surgeon in what is termed ‘Seeing Practice’.

It was my extreme good fortune to be taken as a student by Christopher John Pink, MRCVS, who practised from his residence at Barrow Hill in Newpool, about twelve miles from Abergranog.

Christopher John Pink, or C.J. as he was more commonly known, was a bustling, jovial Welshman, greyhaired and balding, with a bushy moustache that stretched an extra two inches whenever he smiled.

In his fifties, C.J. always dressed in the manner of a country squire, even though not all his clients were on the estates and large farms of the Usk valley. His practice extended well up into the mining valleys, where at the windswept hill farms and smallholdings, he was a great favourite and highly respected.

Immaculate, in sharp-fitting cavalry twill trousers and three-quarter length hacking jacket in a loud check, he was always on the move. The only feature that detracted from his complete sartorial elegance was the fact that, whatever he picked up, in the nature of small bottles, bits of bandage, pencils, string or messages on pieces of paper, he stuffed into his jacket pockets so that they bulged like saddlebags.

Occasionally, when his wife cornered him and demanded he sort them out, he would empty the contents onto the surgery table and, after reforming them in small matching piles, put three-quarters of them back into his pockets.

‘You’re a proper jackdaw,’ Mrs Pink would say, shaking her head. At which remark, C.J. would flap his elbows at his sides like wings and kiss her on the cheek. ‘And that’s a quick peck,’ he’d say, with a cheeky grin, his moustache lengthening considerably.

Another distinctive feature of that warmhearted Welshman was the way he would rub his hands together, gleefully, as if constantly excited by the prospect of whatever was to come. And indeed he was, for C.J. enjoyed his veterinary work to the full and had a wealth of practical experience to offer. Much of his sound advice was contained in what he termed ‘Pink’s Law’, the quoting of which was always accompanied by the raising of the right index finger, as if to call attention, followed by a gentle tapping of the nose with the same finger and a closing of the left eye.

‘Communication is the key to success,’ he would expound, finger raised. Then the tapping and the closed eye. ‘Whether it be man or animal!’

And C.J. was an artist in communication, treating all his clients with an equivalent degree of respect and good humour, such that in his company they relaxed and were completely confident in his expertise, whether it was Widow Evans and her mangy mongrel or Lord Bogan and his hunter.

But it was with animals that the man was in a class on his own, and though, during my future years, I was to see many vets in action, there was none to equal him in communicating with his patients.

‘Talk, touch and treat them as an equal,’ he told me, when I asked his secret. ‘They, too, have feelings, and they’re far more honest and direct about showing them.’

When he handled animals, C.J. was gentle but firm. He talked and touched, but as he did so he was all the time observing and examining. This latter feature may well have escaped the notice of the casual onlooker, for one couldn’t help but believe, by his attitude, that the animal understood his every word.

‘Now m’dear,’ he’d say in a comforting tone to a fat old Friesian cow overdue with the birth of her calf. ‘You’ll be glad to get this load off your mind, no doubt.’ Then, he’d commence his examination, chatting away all the time to her, until finally he would say: ‘Nothing to worry about. Just keep your strength up and in a few days it will all be over.’

Or there was the time he reprimanded a battle-scarred tom cat, as a doctor might his company director patient. ‘Slow it down a bit,’ he said, wagging his finger at the dishevelled creature, who hung it’s tattered head in disgrace. ‘If you don’t, you’ll pop off before your time.’

But the classic example of C.J.’s art of communication was, for me, an experience I shall never forget.

It concerned a dog called Prince.

‘We’re going to see Mrs Webster, the landlady at the Black Lion,’ announced C.J., one morning. ‘You’ll be interested in this case, it’s what you might call an excercise in communication. How well can you sing?’

A little taken aback by his question, I smiled and shook my head.

‘Do you know “Sospan Fach”?’ he asked, grinning.

‘The first verse, but what’s that got to do with it?’

‘Communication,’ said C.J. ‘That’s what it’s all about.’ With a chuckle he pressed the starter and the old Vauxhall rattled into life. As we set off down into Newpool, he explained.

‘Mrs Webster’s got a dog called Prince. An Alsatian, quite old, partly blind and not very sociable. But since her husband died three years ago, he’s helped her keep the pub in order; the Black Lion’s down near the Dock and the clientele can get a bit rough.’ We stopped at the lights and the engine cut out. C.J. cursed softly and pressed the starter.

‘When I first went to see him, shortly after she’d been widowed, I couldn’t get near the old rascal. Quite vicious he was. I was a little worried about giving him a sedative because of his age and was wondering what I should do, when Mrs Webster said, “Try singing.” Apparently Alf, her husband, used to sing to old Prince a lot and, according to Mrs Webster, the old dog would lie down and let Alf do what he liked with him.’ C.J. slammed on the brakes as a cyclist cut across the junction in front of us and cursed again.

‘What did you sing?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ he continued, ‘she said Alf sang Rugby songs, but I didn’t think I could sing some of the ones I knew in front of Mrs Webster, so I tried “Sospan Fach”.’

‘And it worked?’ I asked.

‘Like a charm, boy. Must have hit the jackpot first time. The old dog stopped barking and lay down on the mat and I was able to treat him. He was suffering from bad ears and he let me clean and dress them, no bother at all.’

‘What’s the trouble this time?’

‘A bad paw. Won’t let anyone touch it. All I hope is, he’s still in a musical frame of mind.’

C.J. swung the Vauxhall into a rather dingy street lined with terraced houses; at the far end the derricks of the dockyard and assorted funnels of berthed coasters blocked out the skyline. Halfway down the street we pulled up outside the Black Lion.

The pub was no more than a double-fronted terraced house that had been painted with a heavy coat of black paint or pitch, giving it a rather sinister appearance.

I followed C.J. through the half-open door into the bar; the sharp tang of scented smoke cut the back of my throat and made my eyes water slightly. There were several men of mixed nationality drinking, who took no notice of us until a blonde woman behind the bar called out:

‘Thank’s for coming, Mr Pink. He’s in the kitchen. Can you manage, I’m a bit busy for the moment?’

‘Leave it to us,’ said C.J.

Then the blonde woman caught sight of me.

‘Does the young man know about Prince?’ she asked, slightly nervously.

‘Yes,’ said C.J. ‘Champion tenor from Abergranog. He’ll have old Prince eating out of his hand.’

‘Or eatin’ ’is ’and!’ said one of the men leaning on the bar. ‘Rather ’ew than me, boyo.’

I followed C.J. up a narrow passage beside the bar to a small hallway in which were three doors. He pointed to one, set down his bag and began to whisper.

‘When we start singing he’ll bark like hell. But as long as we don’t stop he’s all right. You take the bag and if I want anything, I’ll sing it to you. He doesn’t mind what the words are so long as you keep up the tune.’

He must have seen the perplexed look on my face, because he added: ‘Don’t worry, boy. Not all my patients are like this. Now one, two, three …’

And with that, he placed his hand on the door knob and burst into song.

Instantly our singing triggered off a ferocious barking from behind the door. It sounded more like a pack of wolves, and when he opened the door I could see why.

Prince was big, black and mean. ‘Fang’ should have been his name, for his gaping jaws showed a set of dentures that would have done a tiger proud.

C.J. waved his palm upwards to indicate that increased volume was desirable, his rich tenor voice fighting against the savage barking.

It was at that point that my mouth went dry, possibly from the smoke of the bar — or I forgot the words — or I was frightened.

C.J. waved his hand more vigorously.

My voice came back and I sang out loud.

Prince came towards me, not casually, but with intention. C.J. waved his hand, and sang ‘Sospan Fach’ for all he was worth.

‘I think we’ve got him where we want him,

He likes you, keep singing the same tune.

I’m sure that he’ll lie down in a minute,

Just move the bag and let me have more room.’

As I picked up the medical bag, Prince turned away from me and, after taking a look at the kitchen mat, made a wide circle, yawned and lay down full length.

To the tune of ‘Sospan Fach’, C.J. gave me further instructions.

‘Look now, the right paw is quite swollen,

I’ll search it and see what I can find.

Just keep an eye upon his head, now,

In case he goes for my behind.’

But Prince had been lulled into a trance; ‘Sospan Fach’ had done the trick. And as I stood in the Black Lion kitchen, medical bag in hand, watching C.J. tending to Prince and singing softly as he did so, I wondered if Glasgow University had ever considered singing an essential part of the veterinary curriculum.

Still crooning, C.J. continued to examine Prince’s pad. Suddenly he plucked his hand backwards, and between his fingers I saw a small sliver of wood.

‘This is the cause of all the trouble,

Splinter from the boards upon the floor.

In the case you’ll find a tube of ointment

And I’ll put some on the septic sore.’

Still adding to the chorus, I opened the case and took out the ointment. C.J. dressed Prince’s pad and when he’d finished, stood up and sang:

‘Right, Hugh, now I think we’ve finished,

Dressed it, I can’t do any more.

You’re doing very well now, just keep singing,

Then gently back out through the door.’

Prince still lay stretched out upon the mat as C.J. eased away from him and drew back through the door behind me.

‘Communication,’ he said, as he turned the knob. ‘You can stop singing now, boy. Come on, I’ll buy you a pint.’

On the way back to the surgery, I lay back in the seat, shattered by the experience.

‘Reminded me a bit of Androcles and the lion,’ I said.

‘Funny you should mention him,’ said C.J., wrestling with the windscreen wiper knob, for it had now started raining. ‘Always thought he must have had a bit of a trick going for him.’

‘Probably had some Welsh blood,’ I suggested.

‘Wonder what he was singing,’ said C.J. peering through the half cleaned screen.

‘“Onward Christian Soldiers”,’ I said.

‘Bound to be,’ said C.J., slapping the wheel. ‘I might even try that next time.’

But I never knew whether he did.

The veterinary surgeons of C.J.’s era were certainly not motivated by financial gain. ‘Veterinary surgery is a way of life and not a job,’ he would say. And for him, that was not a Law, but a belief — and so it had to be, for both animals and clients showed no concern for time or place and often the nights were as busy as the days.

Only rarely did he show the strain. One of the few occasions was a Sunday night, just on eight o’clock, when, after a particularly hectic day the phone bell tinkled once again.

C.J. wearily lifted up the instrument and took the call. After several minutes of conversation, during which time his only contribution was to say ‘Yes’ about six times, he eventually answered, ‘As soon as we can!’ and banged the receiver down.

He covered his face with his hand, drawing it downwards, as if trying to wipe away his tiredness.

‘Elmer Morgan, Ty-Bran,’ he said, finally. ‘Hill farmer, bachelor, Baptist and skinflint, has a cow calving.’ He stood up, put his hands on his hips and bent his body backwards. ‘Been calving since daybreak, look you,’ he continued, with an exaggerated Welsh accent which I assumed was in the manner of Elmer Morgan. ‘And now, Elmer, bless his tight old pockets, wants some help immediately — and if not, sooner!’

‘Ty-Bran,’ I said. ‘That’s Nantygyll way, isn’t it?’

‘Go through Nantygyll and up the mountain until you think you’re in Heaven,’ explained C.J. ‘Then you’re about half way there. Although on a night like this it will be more like the Other Place!’

‘Bit late calling,’ I commented.

‘Been to Chapel, look you,’ he replied. ‘Twice every Sunday. Pity he isn’t so regular about paying his bills — owes me for twelve months. Prays on his knees on a Sunday and on everyone else during the week.’ Then C.J. rubbed his hands vigorously. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘None shall sleep.’

I smiled at his resilience and admired it too, for I knew he was very tired.

‘Do you know that one?’ he asked. ‘It’s from Turandot by Giacomo Puccini. I heard it at Covent Garden, in my twenties — pure magic!’ And with that, he launched into the aria with great gusto and led off to the car.

It was nearly dark and spitting with rain as we drove through the narrow, shiny streets of the valley to Nantygyll. Once away from the monotonous rows of terraced houses that made up the small township, we took the mountain road where the track became rougher and more tortuous.

The windscreen wipers wing-wanged away with a force and noise that suggested a determined effort on their part; alas, the result was but a scrawling disturbance of the wet screen, for they were well past their best.

‘Skin a flea for sixpence, then ask for expenses,’ said C.J., as he peered into the driving rain. ‘Twelve months overdue and calls me out on a filthy night like this. Who’d be a vet?’

‘I would,’ I replied.

He gave me a sideways glance, then he returned his gaze to the windscreen. A minute later he looked sideways again, this time he winked and grinned, so that his moustache extended a good two inches.

‘Good,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’m glad of that. Let’s go and sort out Elmer!’

With that he spurted the old Vauxhall forward and we rattled on up the track.

When we drove into the yard, Elmer was standing waiting for us in the rain — and just as C.J. had described him, so did he look.

Wind-blown, weathered, tall and slightly stooping, he had the appearance of a vulture. Over his shoulders he wore a corn sack, knotted at his chest, and around his waist, tied with string, was another one. A tall black hat topped his head and from the brim of it, thin streams of water ran down at intervals onto the saturated corn sack. Below the hat was the meanest face I had ever seen.

The Vauxhall squelched to a halt alongside and C.J. opened the window.

‘Took ’ewer time, didn’ ’ew!’ squeaked Elmer sarcastically. Then he peered deeper into the car and his beady eye settled upon me. He raised a thin finger and poked it forward. ‘Who’s that?’ he questioned.

‘Hugh Lasgarn,’ replied C.J.

‘Student?’ asked Elmer, suspiciously. ‘Don’ want no one learning on my cows. Too valuable, they are!’

‘Hugh is my assistant,’ retorted C.J. firmly. ‘Where is she?’

‘On the bank,’ he replied, shaking a small torrent from his hat.

‘You could have got her in on a night like this,’ said C.J. sharply.

‘More natural out of doors,’ said Elmer, equally sharply. ‘Anyway, she’s down.’

In the darkness of the car I contemplated the banter between farmer and vet. Elmer seemed to resent having to call C.J. for help — yet he needed him, or at least, his cow did. C.J., in turn, had responded to the call, on a filthy night, and a Sunday. He still had not been paid for his previous services over twelve months, but despite that was expected to co-operate. ‘Who’d be a vet?’ I asked myself, just as C.J. had, only minutes ago.

‘Calving bag, ropes and medical case,’ shouted C.J. as we emerged. ‘What about water, Elmer?’

‘Isn’t this enough for ’ew?’ Elmer Morgan lifted skywards the tilly lamp he was holding, illuminating shafts of Welsh Mountain rain, to which there is no equal for its wetting capacity. For a moment a suggestion of a smile crossed his sallow face, then his features froze again and he lowered the lamp.

‘Took some up in a churn before ’ew come,’ he said. ‘Come back from Chapel, went up to look at ’er. Come back. Rang ’ew. Then took the water up.’ He raised his lamp over the car as we changed into our boots and waterproofs. ‘Knew I’d ’ave plenty of time,’ he added.

But C.J. and I took no notice of his jibe; instead we checked our gear and, like all good vets, or nearly vets — kept our thoughts to ourselves.

In single file we left the yard through the mountain gate, the rain slashing against us. Elmer led with the tilly, I followed with calving bag and ropes and C.J. puffed away behind with the medical case.

On the ridge we rested.

‘She is due now, is she?’ asked C.J., in between gasps.

‘Should have calved this morning,’ said Elmer, setting down the tilly, his voice clear and his breathing steady and unstressed — the benefit of a lifetime of hill farming. ‘Looked on ’er at dawn, then again before I went to Chapel. Saw ’er when I come back and before I went again. To Chapel, ’ew see.’ He shone the lamp and looked at us as if we had never heard of it. ‘Then I went again, tonight.’ Elmer Morgan hung his head as if he was apologising for what he was about to say next. ‘When I came back, she was still the same — so I had to ring for ’ew.’

C.J. wiped the rain from his moustache and grinned.

‘The Lord works in mysterious ways, Elmer,’ he said, having regained his breath.

‘Take not His name in vain, Mr Pink,’ came the reply, but it was faceless, for Elmer had already turned and was leading off up the bank.

As we pushed on, the rain eased, and by the time we reached the small plateau at the top of the rise, I could see the lights of Nantygyll twinkling in the valley. In the distance came a grunting sound and soon the outline of a cow appeared, lying on the edge of the plateau. Even in the dark I could see her shape, and when Elmer raised his lamp I could see she was black.

Just like Old Thundertits.

C.J. set down his case and took a torch from his waterproof pocket. He walked round to the cow’s head and shone the light. Again like Old Thundertits, her horns had dug into the soil and squirts of steam came from her nostrils and, apart from the fact that she was soaking wet, like the rest of us, it was Little Pant all over again.

‘What’s her name?’ asked C.J., bending down.

‘Megan,’ said Elmer, irritably.

C.J. parted the old cow’s eyelids gently. To some it might have appeared as if he was soothing and caressing the poor beast, but I knew he was starting his clinical examination and, as he talked, he was assessing the situation.

‘You’ve picked a grand night to do this, Megan. Sunday’s the Day of Rest, didn’t you know?’ He shone his torch over her flanks, then took out his stethoscope and listened to her heart.

‘Calving she is,’ Elmer informed C.J., rather impatiently.

C.J. paid no attention to the remark, but continued his examination. Finally, he shone his torch on the tailhead and pressed the ligaments beneath.

‘She is ready to calve,’ he said, addressing his comments to me. ‘But something is definitely wrong. She’s as dry as a bone behind and by now there should be some sign of the water.’ He undid his waterproof and laid it on the grass, then he took off his jacket and shirt. Stripped to the waist in the gentle drizzle that now descended, he rolled his clothes in the waterproof and, donning his apron, turned to Elmer.

‘Soap!’

Elmer ferreted beneath the sack around his waist, obviously searching for a pocket. Eventually he withdrew a piece of newspaper which he carefully unrolled — to reveal a scrap of soap about the size of a matchbox which, by its sharp edges, had no doubt been sliced from a larger bar.

‘If cleanliness is next to godliness, you’ve got a long way to go, Elmer,’ said C.J. Then working hard with the morsel, he soaped his arm up to his shoulder.

There are many ways of spending a Sunday night, even in Wales, and I remember thinking, as I held Megan’s tail, while mean old Elmer shone the lamp and C.J., stripped to the waist, eased a soapy arm into the depths of the sweating, prostrate cow on the side of Nantygyll Mountain in the rain, that this must definitely be one of the more unusual.

As C.J. cautiously probed the birth canal, Megan began to strain uneasily.

‘Pinch her back!’ he called to Elmer.

Elmer, without any comment, set down the lamp and squeezed Megan’s spine with his thin, scrawny hands.

‘Further forward!’ shouted C.J.

Elmer moved to her shoulders and his lean frame tensed as he squeezed again.

‘Stops the muscle contractions and eases the straining,’ said C.J., looking up at me, and as he did so I could see the tension in his rain-spattered face.

‘Feel anything?’ enquired Elmer urgently, still bent and squeezing. C.J. didn’t answer, but gradually withdrew his arm, sat back on his haunches and sighed.

‘What is it, mun?’ shrieked Elmer. ‘For God’s sake, what is it?’

C.J. rose to his feet. ‘Elmer Morgan,’ he said, ‘don’t blaspheme. We are going to need all the help available. You. Hugh. Megan, who’s already doing her best.’ C.J. looked upwards into the murky gloom. ‘And Anyone Else who might care to lend a hand!’ he added, wiping the rain from his face.

‘What is it? What is it?’ Elmer shone the lamp right in C.J.’s face.

‘It’s a twisted womb,’ he said.

And I realised then, that it wasn’t like Old Thundertits after all.

Elmer Morgan covered his face with his hand. ‘Megan, my best cow,’ he wailed. ‘My best cow.’

‘I must say that one bit of Providence is that you didn’t get her in to the cowhouse, Elmer,’ remarked C.J. as he opened the calving bag and uncoiled a length of rope. ‘The fact that we’re on the hill will make it easier to roll her. And I want Hugh to feel it, too,’ he added, firmly, ‘so that he will know which way I want the rope to be pulled.’

Elmer made no comment and C.J. nodded to me to make an internal examination. I quickly stripped, soaped my arm with the morsel of soap and knelt down behind Megan. C.J. knelt alongside and, as I gently inserted my hand, he explained what I would feel.

‘If she strains, don’t force against it. Wait until she relaxes, then smoothly ease in.’

I had felt normal calvings on two previous occasions, so the sensation was not completely unknown to me.

‘Let your hand go with the contour and you’ll find the passage twisted like a corkscrew. Feel it?’

The tissue was warm and tacky, but in no way objectionable. In fact, now that I was directly involved, my mind was just concentrating on what I could discover by touch.

‘Yes,’ I replied, as my arm started to twist naturally with the folds of tissue.

‘Now,’ said C.J. ‘I want you to do something which every vet must learn to do, and learn to do well. I want you to see with your fingers.’

When he said it, ‘See with your fingers’, I nearly said, ‘that’s just what I’m doing.’ For I realised that, while I was on my knees gazing into the darkness of the night, in my mind was a picture of the convoluted channel which was preventing the calf’s delivery.

‘Which way is it going?’ asked C.J. ‘Clockwise or anticlockwise?’

I felt the side of the channel, one way, then the other. Although my mental picture seemed quite clear, I couldn’t decide.

‘Confusing, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Come out carefully and I’ll show you how to check. Elmer, give me that sack from around your waist.’

Without a murmur, Elmer untied the sack and handed it over, and as C.J. explained the circumstances to me, the old farmer listened intently.

‘As you know, Hugh,’ he began, ‘for the calf inside the womb, it’s rather like being in a water-filled balloon. In the early stages it lies in a crouched position, but in the later stages, shortly before birth, it extends into a sort of diving posture, head between legs, which are pointed towards the neck of the womb. Imagine this sack as the womb and this as the neck, called the cervix.’

C.J. held up the sack by its far corner, then gathered up the open end in his other hand. ‘That’s the normal position. When the neck opens, out comes the calf.’ He relaxed his grip on the neck of the sack. ‘Now, in Megan’s case, unfortunately, the calf in extending has caused the womb to rotate — so!’ He twisted the neck of the sack and held it up. ‘Look at this!’ He held the gathered end towards me. ‘Which way are the folds?’

‘Anticlockwise!’ Both Elmer and I answered in unison.

‘Correct!’ C.J. gave the neck of the sack a further twist to confirm our answer. ‘Now. To undo it we have to turn Megan in the same direction, but keep the womb still, so that she can catch up upon the twist. See?’

‘How d’yew reckon to do that, then?’ said Elmer, more in despair than sarcasm. ‘Yew’m on Nantygyll Mountain now, mind. Not Porthcawl Fairground!’

‘I shall put my arm into the neck of the womb and hold it as steady as I can,’ explained C.J., holding up the rope from the calving bag. ‘We’ll tie this to Megan’s feet, then you and Hugh stand below her,’ down the slope, and when I give the word you jerk her right over. It must be quick, so that her body turns faster than the womb, which I will attempt to slow down.’

‘Deu, man,’ said Elmer. ‘Sounds a performance.’

‘Just hold this and stop your rattle,’ said C.J. ‘You’ll need all your wind to pull!’ With that, he made double nooses in the rope ends and attached them to Megan’s underside fore and hind legs. Then, washing up again, he knelt down behind the cow and gave the final instructions.

‘D’yew think the calf is alive?’ asked Elmer, as he spat on his hands in readiness for the rope.

‘If you said the right words in Chapel, there’s a good chance,’ came the reply.

‘Mr Pink!’ rasped Elmer, then he took up the strain.

‘When I say “now”,’ said C.J., ‘and not before. But make it strong and quick.’

He lay flat out this time, on the sodden mountain turf, legs splayed to give himself more stability. Then he eased his arm inside Megan as Elmer and I pulled the rope taut.

Megan gave a heave as C.J. took up his position. He let her relax and, as she did, shouted:

‘PULL!’

Elmer and I jerked backwards and heaved. Megan rose onto her back and I heard C.J. gasp as he held firm. Then my foot slipped on the grass and I lost my grasp and Megan rolled back on her side.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘We’ll try again,’ said Elmer, gruffly. He gave a great sniff, spat on his hands and took fresh hold of the rope.

With renewed effort we pulled again at C.J.’s command. This time, Megan rose onto her back and a further quick jerk forced her to flop right over onto her other side.

‘Any good, man?’ Elmer’s voice echoed over the hillside as he shouted.

C.J. lay still and exhausted for a few seconds, then, with a sigh he said: ‘Not quite.’

It took two more rolls, leaving us a good ten yards down the hill, before he eventually shouted: ‘Enough!’ And indeed, it was enough, for in seconds the waters, now released, came gushing out and in five minutes, with a little assistance, a fine Friesian cross Hereford calf slithered into the world on Nantygyll Mountain that Sunday night.

Everyone, including Megan, breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Is it all right?’ Elmer shone the tilly over the glistening, writhing body. The calf bawled, a watery choking sound.

‘Pick it up by its back legs,’ shouted C.J., ‘and jerk it!’

I grabbed the right and Elmer the left; it was slippery and heavy, but we raised it together.

‘Up and down,’ C.J. waved his hands. ‘Probably got some fluid in its throat; that will shake it out.’ And sure enough, as we shook, the calf coughed and started to breathe more easily. We laid it on the ground and Elmer picked up the lamp again.

‘What do you think of that, then?’ asked C.J., washing his bespattered torso with water from the churn.

Elmer held the tilly closer and lifted the calf’s hind leg, then he grunted with disgust.

‘A bull!’ he said. ‘An’ I wanted a ’effer!’

C.J. stopped his ablutions and turned his back on us, looking down the bank to the twinkling lights of Nantygyll. I saw him breathe deeply, then he stood quite still for several minutes. Eventually he moved and confronted Megan, who by now was sitting up and looking much more cheerful.

‘Did you hear that, Megan?’ he said to the old cow. ‘He wanted a heifer!’ Then he put his hands on her forehead and added, ‘Aren’t there times when you feel like packing it all in?’

By the time we had collected up the gear, Megan was up and nuzzling her calf. The transformation from the immobile hulk she had been to a vigorous, tail-swishing mother was remarkable.

‘’Old the light while I try ’er tits,’ said Elmer, handing me the lamp. Cautiously he leaned against the cow and his sinewy hands clasped each teat in turn and with a firm downward draw sent streams of first-milk onto the wet grass where it formed a small frothy pool.

‘Plenty there — ’e’ll be all right,’ he commented, taking back the lamp.’ ‘’Ew can wash at the house an’ I’ll make ’ew some tea.’

‘Right,’ said C.J., slipping his waterproof loosely over his shoulders. ‘A wash will be fine, but no tea, thanks.’

‘As ’ew wish.’ As Elmer led off, C.J. turned to me and whispered:

‘Herbal tea. Aaach! Like gypsy’s shaving water.’ He held his finger to his lips, indicating that I should not pursue the subject.

The kitchen at Ty-Bran was a corrugated tin lean-to at the back of the whitewashed farmhouse. Damp, uneven flagstones covered the floor and, just inside the door, a shallow brown stone sink sat upon two low brick pillars. Above it, a dim unshaded light bulb weakly illuminated the interior. Elmer took a large kettle from an oil stove and poured the steaming contents into a bowl in the sink, and as the vapour rose it misted up a piece of cracked mirror glass fixed to the wall above. On a wooden shelf to one side stood a Victoria and Albert shaving mug out of which poked a shaving soap stick and a great hairy shaving brush; alongside the mug lay a cut-throat razor. My mind ran back to Mr Ellis’ kitchen and Boggy, and I found my eyes roaming the walls — and sure enough they were there, on the far wall, hanging from a nail, just what I might have expected to be part of Elmer Morgan’s lifestyle: a bunch of wicked, thin-wired snares. I watched him as he carefully cut another morsel of soap from a long narrow bar and decided that piety of Elmer Morgan’s sort was no antidote to meanness and cruelty.

He ladled some cold water from a tin bath into the bowl and in turn we washed. The water was warm and soft and the soap lathered readily, but had a rather austere, disinfectant aroma that one associates with certain institutions. The towel was a bleached sack, bound at the edges with linen tape. Through a half open door leading from the lean-to, I glimpsed the living room which looked reasonably comfortable, with a bright fire burning in the tall, black-leaded iron grate. A table in the centre was cluttered with crockery and foodstuffs, while in the corner stood a grandfather clock with a faded, painted face.

C.J. reclothed himself after washing and, as he came to the last buttons of his shirt neck, turned to Elmer who was standing, silently, behind.

‘Your account with me is outstanding by twelve months, Elmer,’ he said, very directly. ‘Thirty-nine pounds seven shillings and sixpence, to be exact — not counting tonight. It’s about time you settled.’

‘Yes, Mr Pink.’ Elmer shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I’ll settle.’

‘Settle the overdue now and you can leave tonight’s on the book,’ said C.J., reasonably.

‘Settle now!’ Elmer squeaked.

‘Yes,’ said C.J. ‘Why not, man?’

Elmer stepped forward a pace, shoulders drooped, neck bent and beaky nose prominent, just like a vulture.

‘Mr Pink,’ he croaked, narrowing his beady eyes, ‘you should know better than to ask.’ Then he stood back, straightened, and held up his hand. ‘It is the Sabbath!’

‘The Sabbath!’ exclaimed C.J., raising his bushy eyebrows.

‘I never do business with money on the Lord’s day,’ said Elmer, with fabricated reverence.

‘I calved your cow for you on the Lord’s day!’ retorted C.J.

‘Ministering to the sick,’ said Elmer, slyly. ‘That’s what that is.’

C.J. grunted, then he leaned back upon his heels and glanced through the door into the living room.

‘What’s that clock say, Hugh?’ He screwed up his eyes in an attempt to read the painted face.

‘Eleven thirty,’ I replied.

‘Eleven thirty,’ said C.J., smoothing down his moustache. ‘Now there’s a thing. What would you say to a cup of tea?’

I hesitated, remembering his whispered comment on the mountainside. Seeing my hesitation, he nodded his head towards me slowly.

‘Oh. Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Mr Morgan. That would be grand.’

C.J. turned upon Elmer, who had suddenly appeared to become smaller and meaner as he clasped his thin fingers together. In comparison C.J. exuded health and confidence and rubbed his strong, broad hands together warmly, as he did in anticipation of some pleasure to come.

‘We’ll take you up on your offer of tea, Elmer,’ he said, smiling benevolently. ‘And while you’re making it, we’ll have a warm by the fire. Then in half an hour or so, Hugh and I will be off!’

Then he stood back, bowed slightly, raised his hand and invited me to precede him into the living room.

It was getting on for half past twelve when we rattled off down the track in the old Vauxhall. The rain had stopped, leaving a dry, clear night, and as we reached the mountain gate, C.J. pulled up.

‘Not a bad way to start the week, eh!’ he said. ‘Twisted womb, live calf and we prised some cash out of Elmer, to boot.’

‘I shall never forget the look on his face when you said we’d stop for half an hour or so,’ I said.

‘Neither shall I.’ C.J. clapped his hands with delight. ‘What did you think of the tea?’

‘I’ve never tasted gypsy’s shaving water, but that must be a fair description,’ I agreed.

‘But three cups a piece is a bit too much,’ said C.J., flinging open the car door.

‘You’re right,’ I said, getting out the other side.

And laughing heartily, we fired two streams of filtered herbal tea down the mountainside towards the twinkling lights of Nantygyll.

* * *

Christopher John Pink qualified at the Royal Veterinary College in 1924 and spent his first two years as an assistant in one of the largest horse practices in East London at that time.

C.J. must have made a most impressive sight as he drove his gig and high-stepper on his calls. Dressed immaculately in bowler hat, riding coat, breeches and leggings, with kid gloves and a silver stamped whip, he was very much the professional man.

‘The ladies never stood a chance, boy,’ he would say gleefully, when he talked of his early days. ‘But you had to be sharp and stay sharp; there were as many amateur horse doctors and rogues about in those days as there were horses — and that was a lot. All ready to take a young vet for a ride, in more ways than one. Some of those fellows could really try your education, and examination of horses for soundness was a trial for horse and veterinary surgeon. There’s many a way of leading a lame horse to make him look sound, or of settling his wind for a few hours. Thorough clinical examination was essential — and still is! Pink’s Law: “Never make a spot diagnosis”,’ he added.

I remember showing some puzzlement when I first heard that remark.

‘If it’s got spots,’ he explained, ‘it could be a Dalmatian.’ Then he tapped his nose gently with his forefinger and added, ‘On the other hand, it could be a leopard!’ C.J. rubbed his hands together. ‘Always examine thoroughly and completely; never go on one factor alone, even if you are convinced you know the answer at first sight.’ And that piece of advice was to prove invaluable on several occasions during my later career.

However, I did see C.J. hoisted by his own petard on one occasion, just at the end of his morning surgery, only about a week after he had imparted that particular section of Pink’s Law to me.

It had been a busy surgery by Barrow Hill standards, with itchy dogs, lame cats, two budgerigars with overgrown beaks and a rabbit with a bad ear, when the last client walked through the door.

The contrast between owner and animal could not have been more complete, for while the former was a dishevelled, down-at-heel Irish tinker wrapped in well-worn, illfitting overcoat, tied with string, his charge was a handsome, brindle greyhound, sharp, alert and a picture of fitness.

‘Cut ’is leg, so he did,’ said the Irishman, scraping a tattered cap from his head and crumpling it up in his right hand. ‘Bit o’ bottle glass, sir, I think.’

‘Been to a party, have you now?’ said C.J., kneeling down and addressing the dog, who nuzzled sociably into his jacket pocket. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, stroking the elegant head, as if expecting the animal to reply.

‘’Tis Brown Arrow, sir,’ the Irishman informed him.

‘That’s a posh name for a pal,’ said C.J., still apparently talking to the dog. ‘But he looks after you well, by the shine on you.’

‘Oh, I do, sir, I do,’ the Irishman confirmed enthusiastically. ‘He’s worth a lot to me, so he is, sir. An awful lot.’

‘Good companions are hard to find,’ said C.J., running his hands over Brown Arrow’s solid form. ‘Let’s have a look at this cut.’ Then, with a smooth, swift motion he rose and lifted the dog and gently placed him on the examination table.

‘’Tis that one, there.’ The Irishman pointed to the right foreleg.

C.J. raised the limb to reveal a skin lesion of about an inch, just above the outer pad. Before he passed any comment, he gave Brown Arrow a quick general examination, just in case he had missed anything — Pink’s Law in practice.

‘Nasty little gash,’ he commented finally, ‘but a couple of stitches should soon put the job right. Don’t worry, old fellow,’ he said, turning to the Irishman. ‘We’ll soon have your pal as right as rain.’

Out of the client’s ear-shot, I helped C.J. get the instruments and suture materials together.

‘Get a few of these tinker boyos in from time to time,’ said C.J. quietly. ‘Not bad old chaps, in the main. On the road usually, with just a dog for a companion. Poor but happy and think the world of their animals.’

‘Brown Arrow looks in good condition,’ I commented.

‘Probably goes without, himself, to feed it,’ said C.J., selecting a fine curved needle from his box.

‘Fancy name, though,’ I said. ‘Just for a pet.’

‘These boyos are romantics at heart,’ replied C.J., drawing the local anaesthetic into a syringe. ‘Come on, let’s start the embroidery.’

Brown Arrow never flinched when the fine needle was inserted and the local spread around. C.J. expertly drew the wound edges together in fine, delicate sutures. Following a light dressing, the wound was bandaged and a small injection of penicillin given to ward off any infection.

‘Should heal in about seven days,’ he informed the Irishman, as he lifted the greyhound down from the table. ‘And I’ve put in sutures that will dissolve, so there will be no problem about taking them out.’

‘Appreciate it, I do, sir. Oh, indeed I do,’ said the Irishman, grabbing C.J.’s hand and shaking it vigorously. ‘That dog, sir, is worth a lot to me.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ said C.J. smiling benevolently. ‘I’m sure he is.’

‘Now, what would you want me to be paying you, sir?’ asked the Irishman.

‘Oh, a pound to you. Just to cover the drugs,’ C.J. replied, putting a hand on the old fellow’s shoulder.

‘Are ye sure, now?’ he replied, eyebrows raised.

‘If that’s all right,’ said C.J.

‘Sure an it is,’ said the Irishman, and with that he delved deeply into his greatcoat pocket and his hand emerged with a massive wad of notes.

It was the most money I had ever seen in one lump and it must have been the same for C.J., for he gasped, fell back a little and had to put his hand behind him onto the examination table to steady himself.

‘Where did you get all that?’ he asked, when he had recovered from the shock.

‘Last night’s winnings at Pontyglyn track with me auld dog, sir,’ said the Irishman, gently waving the wad up and down and momentarily hypnotising C.J. ‘Third time we’ve cleaned up in Wales this month, sir. Told yer he was worth a lot to me, an’ so he is. Offered five hundred pounds for him only last night, so I was, but if I hang out I reckon I’ll get twice of that afore I’m finished.’ Then, with a great flourish, he peeled a pound note from the top of the pile. ‘Now there is your fee, sir, an’ a gen’lman ye are too.’ Then he peeled off another pound. ‘And I’d like you an’ your young man here to have a drink on me an’ Brown Arrow, for all yer kindness, sir, so I would.’

He placed the two notes in C.J.’s limp hand and, pushing his cap untidily back onto his balding head, bid us both ‘Goodmornin’.

When he had gone, C.J. shut the door behind him and leaned heavily against it.

‘A pound,’ he said. ‘Just a pound.’ And shook his head in disbelief.

‘You’re too softhearted,’ I said.

‘Pink’s Law,’ he said, looking me straight in the eye. ‘I forgot it, boy, didn’t I?’

‘It was a greyhound, not a Dalmatian or a leopard,’ I reminded him.

‘Not the dog, Hugh, the man! Pink’s Law can apply to people, too. Never make a diagnosis on one factor alone, remember?’

I nodded several times.

‘But I did. I did!’ C.J. said, clasping his hands. ‘Now remember this, young man.’ C.J. tapped his nose gently with his forefinger. ‘If they are dirty and scruffy, they could be Micks, on the other hand — they could be millionaires!’ Then C.J. Pink threw back his head and roared with laughter.

And for me, that was another section of Pink’s Law that proved invaluable, as well.

* * *

I spent all my vacations ‘seeing practice’ at Barrow Hill. Some students moved about a lot and visited a great variety of practices, but I spent my time with C.J. Pink and never regretted one moment of it.

His guidance and advice, together with abundant quotations from ‘Pink’s Law’, put a completely different interpretation upon the final terms at university.

Now, the lectures, clinical demonstrations and surgical procedures were really beginning to mean something. The basic foundation of the first years was at last being built upon in real terms and I was beginning to feel and think like a vet.

But, as the days flew by and the final examinations loomed, there was something nagging at me, that up until then I had successfully banished to the distant corners of my mind — National Service. Even if I qualified, obtained my degree and became a member of the prestigious Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, I would not be able to go into practice until I had completed two years in the Army. Most graduates took a commission in the Royal Army Veterinary Corps, which dealt with horses and dogs and was certainly no waste of time, but for me it was just an unnecessary delay in achieving my ambition of becoming a country vet.

There are some great crossroads in life that one often fails to recognise at the time, because they do not appear as momentous occasions. Such was one of mine — nothing more dramatic than losing the top of my treasured Parker 51 fountain pen that my parents had given me when I started at university. I searched high and low, then decided to put a ‘Lost’ card on the notice board outside the student common room.

The board was usually crowded with day-to-day information — everything from time-tables and team lists to club news, entertainments and other oddments of interest. As I scanned the board for a space, I noticed a directive stating that, due to a delay in recruitment, graduates due for National Service would not be called up for at least two months after qualifying. This I regarded as bad news, for as far as I could see, it only delayed the agony.

There appeared to be no spare drawing pins, and as I was desperately hoping to obtain news of my lost pen top, I decided to pinch a pin from some less significant notice. I found one, almost completely obscured by a poster for the Friday Dance, at the bottom corner of the board. No one could see it anyway, so I felt quite justified in taking its pin and fixing my card in a prominent position.

Standing back to admire my bold notice, I casually looked at the card I had just displaced. It was a vacancy for a job. Occasionally these cards appeared on the board, but as I was destined for the Army, I paid little attention to them: the one in my hand, however, captured my interest.

I put the card in my pocket and wrote that night.

I got the job and, when I qualified, started practice in Ledingford. The advert was indeed true to its description, in that the practice was agricultural and very mixed. For thirty days at least, I would be able to satisfy my ambition.