So THAT’S how you treat a bull with sunstroke

His stories enchanted the nation – and as we continue our glorious revival of James Herriot’s veterinary adventures, we meet his most challenging patient of all . . .

FOLLOWING the death of actor Robert Hardy, 91 — who played Siegfried Farnon in TV’s muchloved All Creatures Great And Small — all this week we are revisiting the magnificent memoirs by James Herriot that provided the basis for the drama about a young vet in the Yorkshire Dales. Today, James has to think quickly to impress a gruff, blunt-speaking farmer . . . and meets the love of his life.

LOOKING at Phin Calvert, you would never have thought he was a prosperous farmer. The first time I saw him was in the street outside the surgery when I was talking to Brigadier Julian Coutts-Browne about his shooting dogs. The Brigadier was almost a stage version of an English aristocrat; immensely tall with a pronounced stoop, hawk features and a high, drawling voice.

I turned my head at the clatter of heavy boots on the pavement.

A thickset figure was stumping rapidly towards us, hands tucked behind his braces, ragged jacket pulled wide to display a curving expanse of collarless shirt, wisps of grizzled hair hanging in a fringe beneath a greasy cap. He was smiling widely at nobody in particular and he hummed busily to himself.

The Brigadier glanced at him. ‘ Morning, Calvert,’ he grunted coldly.

Phin threw back his head in pleased recognition. ‘Now then, Charlie, ’ow is ta?’ he shouted.

The Brigadier looked as though he had swallowed a swift pint of vinegar. He removed his cigar with a shaking hand and stared after the retreating back. ‘Impudent devil,’ he muttered. I was called out to Phin’s place about a week later and was surprised to find a substantial house and buildings and a fine dairy herd grazing in the fields.

I could hear him even before I got out of the car.

‘Hello, ’ello, ’ello! Who’s this we’ve got, then? New chap eh? Now we’re going to learn summat!’

He still had his hands inside his braces and was grinning wider than ever. ‘My name is Herriot,’ I said. ‘Is it now?’ Phin cocked his head and surveyed me, then he turned to three young men standing by. ‘ Hasn’t he a nice smile, lads? He’s a real Happy Harry!’

He turned and began to lead the way across the yard. ‘Come on, then, and we’ll see what you’re made of. I ’ope you know a bit about calves because I’ve got some here that are right dowly.’

As he went into the calf-house I was hoping that I would be able to do something impressive — perhaps use some of the new drugs I had in my car; it was going to take something special to make an impact here.

PHIN’S calves were behaving very strangely; grinding their teeth, frothing at the mouth and blundering about the pen as though they couldn’t see. As I watched, one of them walked straight into a wall.

It didn’t take long to work out my diagnosis — their blindness made it easy. I began to look round the walls of the calf-house; it was dark and I had to get my face close to the stone.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’ said Phil. ‘You’re as bad as t’calves. What d’you think you’re lookin’ for?’

‘Paint, Mr Calvert. I’m as sure as I can be your calves have got lead poisoning.’

Phin said what all farmers say at this juncture. ‘They can’t have. I’ve had calves in here for 30 years. There’s no paint in here, anyway.’

‘How about this, then?’ I peered into the darkest corner and pulled at a piece of loose board.

‘Oh, that’s nobbut a bit of wood I nailed down there last week to block up a hole. Came off an old hen house.’

I looked at the 20-year-old paint hanging off in the loose flakes which calves find so irresistible. ‘This is what’s done the damage,’ I said. ‘Look, you can see the tooth-marks where they’ve been at it.’

Phin studied the board at close quarters and grunted doubtfully. ‘All right, what do we do now?’

‘First thing is to get this painted board out of here and then give all the calves Epsom salts. Have you got any?’

Phin gave a bark of laughter. ‘Aye, I’ve got a bloody great sackful. But can’t you do owt better than that? Aren’t you going to inject them?’

It was a bit embarrassing, to say the least.

A proper antidote to metal poisoning had not been discovered and the only thing which sometimes did a bit of good was magnesium sulphate which caused the precipitation of insoluble lead sulphate. The homely term for magnesium sulphate is, of course, Epsom salts.

‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing I can inject that will help at all and I can’t even guarantee the salts will. But I’d like you to give the calves two heaped tablespoonfuls three times a day.’

‘Right, Harry,’ he said, nodding his head vigorously. ‘I’ll do that. But now you must come in and have a drink.’

Phin stumped into the farm kitchen ahead of me, threw back his head and let loose a bellow that shook the windows. ‘Mother! Feller ’ere wants a glass o’ beer. Come and meet Happy Harry!’

Mrs Calvert appeared with magical speed and put down glasses and bottles.

I glanced at the labels — ‘Smith’s Nutty Brown Ale’, and filled my glass.

It was a historic moment, though I didn’t know it then — the first of an incredible series of Nutty Browns I was to drink at that table.

Mrs Calvert sat down for a moment, crossed her hands on her lap and smiled encouragingly.

‘Can you do anything for the calves, then?’ she asked. Phin butted in before I could reply. ‘Oh aye, he can an’ all. He’s put them on to Epsom salts.’ ‘Epsom salts?’ ‘That’s it, Missis. I said when he came that we’d get summat real smart and scientific like. You can’t beat new blood and modern ideas.’ Phin sipped his beer gravely.

Over the following days the calves gradually improved and at the end of a fortnight they were all eating normally. The worst one still showed a trace of blindness, but I was confident this, too, would clear up.

It wasn’t long before I saw Phin Calvert again.

I was in the office with Siegfried when the outer door banged and the passage echoed to the clumping of hobnails.

THEN I heard a voice raised in song — hiti- tiddly- rum- te- tum. Phin was in our midst once more. ‘Now then, gaffer,’ he said to Siegfried. ‘ ’Ow’s tricks?’

‘Everything’s fine, Mr Calvert,’ Siegfried replied. ‘What can we do for you?’

Phin stabbed a finger at me. ‘There’s my man. I want him out to my place right sharpish.’

‘What’s the trouble?’ I asked. ‘Is it the calves again?’

‘Damn, no! Wish it was. It’s me good bull. He’s puffin’ like a bellows — bit like pneumonia but worse than I’ve known. He’s in a ’ ell of a state. Looks like he’s peggin’ out.’ For an instant, Phin lost his jocularity.

I had heard of this bull; pedigree shorthorn, show winner, the foundation of his herd.

‘I’ll be right after you, Mr Calvert. I’ll follow you along.’

I made good time to the farm and found Phin waiting with his three sons. The young men looked gloomy, but Phin was still indomitable.

‘ Here ’e is!’ Phin shouted. ‘Happy Harry again! Now we’ll be all right.’

The bull was standing as though rooted to the middle of the pen. His great ribcage rose and fell with the most laboured respirations I had ever seen.

His mouth gaped wide, a bubbling foam hung round his lips and his flaring nostrils; his eyes, almost starting from his head in terror, stared at the wall in front of him.

This wasn’t pneumonia, it was a frantic battle for breath, and it looked like a losing one.

‘Poor aud beggar,’ Phin muttered. ‘He’s bred me the finest calves I’ve ever had and he’s as quiet as a sheep, too. I’ve seen me little grandchildren walk under ’is belly and he’s took no notice. I hate to see him sufferin’ like this. If you can’t do no good, just tell me and I’ll get the gun out.’

What in the name of God was this? Could it be anthrax?

I looked over at the row of heads above the half- door; they were waiting for me to say something. Above their heads the sky was deep blue and a single dazzling ray from the sun made me close

my eyes. A faint bell began to ring in my mind.

‘ Has he been out today?’ I asked Phin.

‘Aye, he’s been out on the grass on his tether all morning . It was that grand and warm.’

The bell became a triumphant gong. ‘Get a hosepipe in here quick. You can rig it to that tap in the yard.’ ‘A hosepipe? What the ’ell . . ?’ ‘Yes, quick as you can — he’s got sunstroke.’

The lads had the hose fixed in less than a minute. I turned it full on and began to play the jet of cold water all over the huge form — his face and neck , along the ribs, up and down the legs.

I kept this up for about five minutes, but it seemed a lot longer as I waited for some sign of improvement in the animal.

I was beginning to think I was on the wrong track when the bull gulped just once.

It was something — he had been unable to swallow his saliva before in his desperate efforts to get the air into his lungs. Surely the big animal was looking just a little less distressed, and wasn ’t the breathing slowing down a bit?

Then the bull shook himself, turned his head and looked at us. There was an awed whisper from one of the young men: ‘By gaw , it’s working!’ I enjoyed myself after that. I cannot think of anything in my working life that has given me more pleasure than standing in that pen directing the life -saving jet and watching the bull savouring it.

He liked it on his face best and, as I worked my way up from the tail and along the steaming back , he would turn his nose full into the water, rocking his head from side to side and blinking blissfully.

Within half an hour he looked almost normal. His chest was still heaving a little, but he was no longer in discomfort.

‘He’ll be all right now ,’ I said. ‘ But I think one of the lads should keep the water on him for another 20 minutes or so. I’ll have to go now.’

‘ You’ve time for a drink ,’ Phin grunted. In the farm kitchen, his bellow of ‘Mother’ lacked some of its usual timbre. He dropped into a chair and stared into his glass of Nutty Brown.

‘Harry,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you, you’ve flummoxed me this time.’ He sighed and rubbed his chin in apparent disbelief. ‘I don ’t know what the ’ell to say to you.’

It wasn’t often that Phin lost his voice, but he found it again very soon at the next meeting of the local farmers’ discussion group.

A learned and earnest gentle - man had been expounding on the advances in veterinary medicine and how the farmers could now expect their stock to be treated as doctors treated their human patients, with the newest drugs and procedures. It was too much for Phin. He jumped to his feet and cried: ‘Ah think you ’re talking a lot of rubbish. There’s a young feller in Darrowby not long out of college and it doesn ’t matter what you call ’im out for , he uses nowt but Epsom salts and cold water.’ I WAS spending Tuesday evening as I spent all Tuesday evenings — staring at the back of Helen Alderson’s head at the Darrowby Music Society.

I had met her a few weeks previously when one of her father’s calves broke a leg , and had been immediately smitten with her.

Since that morning , I had scanned the day book regularly in the hope of getting another visit to the Aldersons’ farm. But they seemed to have lamentably healthy stock. So I joined the music society. It was a slow way of getting to know her, but I had been unable to think of a better idea.

Tonight, a string quartet was scraping away industriously, but I hardly heard them. My eyes, as usual, were focused on Helen, sitting between the two old ladies she always brought with her.

That was part of the trouble; those two old girls were always there, cutting out any chance of private conversation, even at the half-time break for tea.

It simply didn ’t seem like the sort of place where you could say out of the blue such as: ‘ Are you doing anything on Saturday?’

As we sipped our tea, the vicar approached our group, beaming . ‘I’m afraid I have to call on some - body for the washing -up rota,’ he said. ‘P erhaps our two young friends would take it on tonight?’

His friendly gaze twinkled from Helen to me and back again.

The idea of washing up teacups had never held much attraction for me, but suddenly it was like sighting the promised land.

‘ Yes, certainly , delighted,’ I said. ‘That is, if it ’s all right with Miss Alderson.’

HELEN smiled. ‘ Of course it’s all right. We all have to take a turn, don’t we?’ I’d never have a better chance. As we reached the end of the pile of crockery, I said to Helen in a hoarse croak which I only just recognised as my own voice: ‘Can I see you some time?’ She flushed and replied: ‘ If you like.’

I heard the croak again. ‘Saturday evening?’ She nodded, dried the last cup and was gone.

My toes were curling with embarrassment as I returned to my seat, but I had done it at last.

ALL Creatures Great And Small: The Classic Memoirs Of A Yorkshire Country Vet by James Herriot (Pan Books, £9.99). To order a copy for £7.49 (25 per cent discount) visit mailbookshop.co.uk or call 0844 571 0640. P&P free on orders over £15. Offer is valid until September 8, 2017.