He had additional opportunities to make big money by allowing his name to be used to endorse items such as pet feeds, but he would not countenance the idea. Displaying sparse interest in anything that smacked of commercialism, that old glazed look would come over his eyes whenever any strategies for making more money were suggested to him.

One of the most striking features of my father’s character was his ‘vagueness’. On many occasions when I was speaking to him, his glassy expression betrayed a mind that was racing away elsewhere. Some subjects that particularly failed to interest him could send him spinning off into a virtually hypnotic state within seconds, and it could be a frustrating experience trying to re-establish contact.

One thing, however, that was always guaranteed to erase any film in front of his eyes was the mention of football – especially anything to do with Sunderland Football Club. Having become a season ticket holder, he rarely missed a home game, and the club were quick to realise that they had a major personality as a supporter.

In 1991, having bought some shares in the club, he received a letter. It was one that meant a great deal to him. The directors were offering him the honorary position of Life President of the club ‘in view of your lifelong support and loyalty and your assistance and contribution in so many ways … You will be entitled to two free directors’ box seats, car park and the use of the 100 club for all home games … We believe that you certainly deserve this recognition.’

He regarded this honour as one of the most satisfying he had ever received, but he declined the free seats in the directors’ boxes, preferring instead to cheer his team along from among the crowd as he had always done on countless happy occasions throughout his life.

His football team always provided him with wonderful entertainment. They were never a boring team, with almost every match seeming to have some significance as they continually strived for either honours or sheer survival at the end of every season. In 1992, he had the great satisfaction of seeing Sunderland again perform in the FA Cup Final at Wembley. He arranged seats at the stadium for a party of his family and friends where, despite the team losing to Liverpool, everyone enjoyed a memorable day out.

The club has now moved to a brand new stadium in Sunderland, where the chairman, Bob Murray, and his directors, have set aside a room within it called ‘The James Herriot Room’. Pictures of Alf Wight adorn the walls, one photograph depicting his own football-playing days at Glasgow Veterinary College. The club has not forgotten the famous author whose pleasure at the success of his team on the football field was never to take second place to that engendered by his astonishing literary achievements.

After his death, a tribute appeared in the north-east newspaper, the Sunday Sun, ending with the words: ‘For here was a genuine football man who truly understood the agony and the ecstasy of being a Sunderland supporter. A caring, compassionate man who loved all creatures great and small … and all creatures red and white.’

More honours were heaped on him during the late 1980s and early 1990s. In 1987, the Humane Society of the United States decided to make an annual award, in his name, to a person selected by the society for conveying concern and compassion for animals.

In April 1989, he was invited to address the World Small Animal Veterinary Association Congress that was to be held that year in Harrogate. This was a great honour that he could not refuse – and it was conveniently close to home – but he was full of trepidation about speaking in front of so many of his learned colleagues from all over the world. He rose to the occasion and, true to his character, delivered a speech full of modest references to his own life as a veterinarian. His self-effacing speech did little to prevent his being the star of the show. When it came to expertise and knowledge of the latest techniques in modern veterinary practice, he was, indeed, among his betters that day but, as every veterinarian there realised, Alfred Wight’s own contribution towards the image of his profession was unequalled.

This was summed up by the highly respected American veterinarian, Dr Stephen Ettinger. He stated in a television interview around that time: ‘Without any doubt, James Herriot is the most famous veterinarian in the world and, perhaps, the most respected. He has shown the world that the veterinarian is the gentle doctor.’

In 1992, Alf became the first recipient of the British Veterinary Association’s new Chiron Award for ‘exceptional service to the veterinary profession’ although, by then, he had retired from veterinary practice. At the end of 1989, feeling that he had little to contribute to the everyday activities within the practice – and suffering the indignity one day of being helped out of a pig pen by two youthful farm lads – he considered it might be time to call it a day. Finding it increasingly difficult to keep pace with the huge changes occurring within his profession, he knew that he was making the right decision.

He was, by then, seventy-three years old and had completed almost fifty years working as a veterinary surgeon. There had been times of triumph and disaster, days of happiness and despair but, above all, there had been years of working at a job that had never failed to fascinate him.

Donald Sinclair, although five years older than Alf, steadfastly refused to retire and continued to work’ on until 1991, but that year, he suffered a stroke which effectively ended his days at 23 Kirkgate. Incredibly – although perhaps unsurprisingly – Donald, who was admitted to hospital, paralysed down one side of his body, discharged himself nine hours later. He made a complete recovery from that stroke and, within a few months was, aged over eighty, once again walking about in the hills above Southwoods Hall.

Donald, living so close to Alf, was always around to brighten his life, as was Alex Taylor, but the late 1980s had seen the demise of more old friends, among them, one of his greatest: Brian Sinclair.

On 13 December 1988, Brian, who had been suffering for some time from circulatory problems, succumbed to a heart attack. Brian, who had always rejoiced in his portrayal as Tristan, had been one of Alf’s closest friends and it was a bleak day for him when he learned that he would never again look on his open and laughing face. It was a mournful occasion for us all as we attended his funeral in Harrogate where many tears were shed for such a popular and respected man.

I remember, so well, my father talking about his great friend shortly after his death. He spoke with great feeling about the man with whom he had spent so many uplifting hours of fun and laughter.

‘Brian may have been a practical joker for most of his life,’ he said, ‘but, beneath that hilarious veneer, was a sound and dependable man. A true friend in every sense of the word.’

Brian’s death was a blow to so many people. A day or two after he died, I went to see Donald at his house and expressed my sorrow at his brother’s death.

He looked away from me before gazing out at the rolling hills around Southwoods Hall. ‘Thank you, Jim,’ he replied. ‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’

He lowered his head and wept quietly. As I consoled him, I realised that those frightful shouting sessions of the 1940s, described so vividly in the books of James Herriot, had surely hidden Donald’s true feelings for his wayward but so engaging younger brother.

They were sad times for me, too, to see my father’s friends fade away but December 1991 would be a month his family would never forget. It was when we learned that the days of Alfred Wight were numbered. For this man – with whom, over a period of more than fifty years as a father, friend and professional colleague, I had never had a cross word – the end was in sight.