As a writer, however, he stood alone. The warmth and affection that he felt for others, animal and human, flowed from his pen as though writing were an outlet for the emotions that he felt deeply but could never fully unleash. It is within the pages of James Herriot’s books that the real character of Alfred Wight is to be found.

It could be argued that being the son of such a man could have posed serious problems in trying to live up to his example – but it has not. Alfred Wight never cast a shadow over his family. Far from being in awe of his massive success, his modest approach to it ensured that I have felt nothing but pride in the achievements of a man whom I considered simply as a great friend and father rather than a world-famous personality.

If my father had a gravestone, I would inscribe upon it the advice that we, as his younger colleagues, heard from him time and again: ‘It’s not what you do, it’s the way that you do it.’

I am unable to inscribe this lasting tribute to him as he has no headstone; instead, his ashes are scattered among the moorland grass at the top of the Whitestone Cliffs from where a huge area of his beloved North Yorkshire can be seen. Rosie suggested this spot and it is entirely fitting for his final resting place. I have stood here for many an hour, looking at the places where my father played out a great slice of his life. His practice, where he toiled manfully among all creatures great and small, is stretched out below, as far as the distant Pennines which first captivated him in those far-off days in 1940. Thirsk, where he brought up his family, and Thirlby, his home for the last eighteen years of his life, are clearly visible but, above all, it is a fresh and clean part of Yorkshire with a breath of the wildness and freedom that was so close to his heart.

My father described this stretch of Yorkshire as having the ‘finest view in England’; for a man with such feeling for the beauty of the country around him, there could be no better place to lie.

I return to that spot many times when walking my dog, and only last week I sat there with her – just as my father had done countless times with his dogs. As I gazed out at the patchwork of fields stretched below, I had feelings of sadness and nostalgia.

The world that James Herriot wrote about has all but disappeared and the countless family farms which James, Siegfried and Tristan visited in their rattly little cars are now few in number. Almost all of the fascinating old Yorkshire farmers that James Herriot immortalised are now dead and gone, together with the hard-working bands of farm men with whom he spent many happy hours.

Large cultivated fields, splashed with the colour of modern buildings, have partly taken the place of the greens and browns of hedges and old farmsteads but, apart from this, the picture of ‘Herriot Country’ laid out before me was not very different from the one I knew as a boy. As well as sadness, however, I had feelings of gratitude; how many men can claim to have had a father who left such great memories that could be shared with so many?

My memories that day, however, were not of James Herriot the author, but of Alfred Wight, the father. Following his death, one of his fans sent me the famous prayer by Henry Scott Holland, Canon of St Paul’s Cathedral (1847–1918). The words are moving ones and bring great comfort to those who grieve at the loss of a loved one. The first and final sentences of the prayer seemed to have especial significance at that time:

‘Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room … Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well’

As I sat that day with the ‘finest view in England’ stretched before me, I did wonder whether I would ever see my father again. I would give a great deal to be able to do so. I have so much to say to him and countless questions to ask. I do not know and I can only hope.

There is, however, one thing of which I am certain. James Herriot, the unassuming veterinary surgeon who enthralled millions, was no fictional character. There was a man I knew, who possessed all the virtues of the famous veterinarian – and more. A totally honest man whose fine sense of humour and air of goodwill towards others ensured that he was respected by all who knew him. A man on whom, after his death, a Yorkshire farmer delivered his final verdict: ‘Aye, he were a right decent feller.’ That man was James Alfred Wight.

1. Hannah Bell, Alf’s mother

2. James Henry Wight, Alf’s father

3. The formal family photograph following the wedding of Hannah and James Wight, July 1915. The two young men in uniform in the front row are, left, Alfred Wight, after whom Alf was named and, right, Stan Bell, Hannah’s brother; between them are Pop’s two sisters, Jennie and Ella. Bob and Matt Wight are on either end of the back row; below Bob is Auntie Jinny and her husband, George Wilkins.

4. Alf on holiday with his parents at Inverbeg by Loch Lomond: one hopes they did not have far to walk.

5. Alf between Auntie Jinny and his mother and, behind, George, Nan and Stan Wilkins

6. Alf with Stan Wilkins and hairy friend

7. With Don as a young puppy

8. The Glasgow Veterinary College football team. Alf is in the centre row on the left with Bob Smith in fifth position and Eddie Straiton third from right. Aubrey Melville is in the front row, on the far left, predictably with a girl next to him.

9. The Boys’ Brigade relaxing on the beach at North Berwick. From left to right:Alf, Eddie Hutchinson, Pete Shaw and Alex Taylor

10. With his mother in Llandudno, c. 1937

11. Alf while he was at Hillhead School

12. Alf with Donald Sinclair and Eric Parker, in the garden at 23 Kirkgate

13. In the vegetable garden at 23 Kirkgate

14. TB Testing in the Yorkshire Dales

15. A postcard of Kirkgate in Thirsk, looking up to the parish church—and, by coincidence, Alf’s car outside the surgery

16. Alf, in RAF uniform, with his newborn son: February 13, 1943

17. Joan on the beach at Llandudno, 1951

18. Pop and Alf with Rosie and Jimmy in the garden at 23 Kirkgate

19. Alf and Jimmy Youth-Hostelling near Reeth in the Dales, 1957