Around 1949, he bought a radiogram. This most elegant piece of furniture – for which he saved diligently – was a wireless and record player combined, in front of which he would sit for hours on long winter evenings, listening to the music of his favourite composers, among many others, Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms and Tchaikovsky. He used to listen enthralled, night after night, to the lyrical voice of his favourite tenor, Beniamino Gigli – just as his father had sat, listening interminably to the great Caruso on his old gramophone in Glasgow.
Alf’s passion for sport, too, provided therapeutic breaks from work. His football team, Sunderland, was too far away to visit regularly but he could watch first division football at the nearest league team, Middlesbrough. With fellow supporters, Cyril Dale, Bill Spence, Maurice Peckitt, Ray Hart and several others, he travelled regularly to the stadium at Ayresome Park and soon became an avid Middlesbrough fan.
His Uncle Stan, however, ensured that he never forgot his allegiance to the red and white stripes of Sunderland, despatching to Thirsk every week during the season the Sunderland Football Echo, After Uncle Stan died, his son-in-law, John Eves, carried on the tradition, the bulletins always being essential reading for Alf.
Through his love of football, he met a man who was to become a lifelong friend. Guy Rob, a farmer from the village of Catton near Thirsk, travelled thousands of miles with Alf to watch football. Guy, who was considerably older than Alf, was an intelligent and humorous man and provided Alf with many hours of welcome conversation along the well-travelled roads to the football grounds.
Guy was a good horseman and hunted regularly but, rather unusually for lovers of field sports, he was also a fanatical follower of cricket and football. This real gentleman was equally at home at the local hunt ball, a glass of fine wine in his hand, as he was on the rain-swept terraces of Sunderland Football Club, clutching a cup of watery Bovril while chatting with the flat-capped supporters around him.
Guy’s sister, Kitty, who was also a good friend of Alf, was a respected breeder of Pembroke Corgis and was a client of the practice. She was, however, very different from Guy. She was a small, rounded lady who smoked prodigious numbers of cigarettes, drank steadily, and cared little what she said or to whom she said it. Where Guy was quiet and reserved, Kitty was open in her views.
She was a highly intelligent lady whose sharp wit would provide Alf with many entertaining moments during his visits to her breeding kennels. Alf’s favourite memory was of her entering into a heated discussion on the topic of healthy living with a doctor – a tall, lean man who, unlike Kitty, neither smoked nor drank but lived frugally on only the healthiest of foods.
The argument came to a head when he finally took a long look at the chunky little figure before him. ‘Miss Rob,’ he said, ‘I must confess that, should you ever come to my surgery, I would feel compelled to put you on a very strict diet!’
Kitty stared frostily at his spare frame before replying swiftly, ‘Doctor, should you ever come to my kennels, the first thing I would do is worm you!’
Alf, like Guy Rob, was a great cricket fan and, whenever he could, would travel to Headingley – the home ground of the Yorkshire Cricket Club – or to the annual cricket festival at Scarborough.
Alf not only managed to watch sport; he played the one at which he had excelled since his boyhood – tennis. He was a regular at the Thirsk Athletic Club, playing for the club in the local tennis league. Alex Taylor, during his few years in Thirsk, was also a member and he and Alf formed a formidable doubles partnership that won many matches for Thirsk. Joan, too, was a good player. She had always been an excellent hockey and tennis player in her years at Thirsk Grammar School, and her keen eye for a ball ensured that she and Alf had many challenging matches together on the club’s courts.
One half-day per week, every Thursday, was Alf’s only regular break from work for the first ten years of his professional life. These hallowed few hours were spent in the town of Harrogate. This elegant spa town, referred to in the Herriot books as ‘Brawton’, was one for which he and Joan developed a lasting affection. Right up until the final years of Alf’s life, they followed the tradition of visiting Harrogate every Thursday with, in the early days, these visits following a set pattern. Eating was the number one activity.
Alf and Joan always enjoyed their food but their performance with the knife and fork was particularly impressive at that time. Thursdays opened, as usual, with a good breakfast, after which Alf built up an appetite around the practice in the morning while Joan whetted hers, scrubbing at the already clean Kirkgate stone floors. They then departed for Harrogate, stopping en route at the Red Lion at South Stainley, a famous inn noted for its good food. After a substantial three-course lunch, they drove on to Harrogate and spent the next couple of hours browsing around the shops, before hunger pains drew them through the doors of Betty’s Café. What followed then was the effortless consumption of hors d’oeuvres, fish and chips and a tasty dessert. The clean and friendly café, with the smiling waitresses and the gentle chink of fine china, was a wonderfully relaxing contrast to the rough and tumble of the cold Yorkshire farmyards.
The next stop was the cinema, after which, upon emerging from its dark interior, they were assailed by the irresistible aromas issuing from Louis, a nearby restaurant. Louis was a small, volatile Italian gentleman, a masterful chef who ran a small café that provided a satisfying end to the Wights’ day as they swiftly put large plates of spaghetti, or other delicious Italian dishes, out of sight. Harrogate was a sweet retreat for Alf and Joan – a place where they could forget the clamour of 23 Kirkgate with its relentlessly ringing telephone. He writes affectionately in 1979 about the town in his factual book, James Herriot’s Yorkshire: ‘I love my work but it is stressful, and the sense of escape as Helen and I roamed the streets of this lovely town was unbelievable. Even now, when I step from my car in Harrogate, I can feel myself relaxing, feel the tensions and the pressures growing less.’
One day, Alf and Joan were in Betty’s when Alf was approached by a man who said to him, ‘Excuse me, but are you George Donaldson?’
‘No,’ replied Alf. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You look just like George Donaldson,’ he replied. ‘He was at school with me at Strathallan.’
‘The only man I know of who comes from Strathallan is Gordon Rae, the vet from Boroughbridge,’ continued Alf. ‘But I’ve never actually met him.’
‘Now you have,’ said the man. ‘That’s me!’
Gordon Rae began laughing – something that he and Alf would continue to do together for many years to come. This meeting began a lasting friendship between Gordon and his wife Jean, and Alf and Joan, during which time they would meet regularly in Harrogate almost every Thursday afternoon for the next twenty-five years.
If I had to count the very best friends of my father on the fingers of one hand, Gordon Rae would be among them. Originating from north-east Scotland, he ran the veterinary practice in the town of Boroughbridge, not far from Thirsk, and was just the sort of man that my father liked. Gordon was a man with no ‘side’ to him – someone you felt that you knew well after a very short time in his company, with honesty and decency shining out of his friendly face.
Although in a far stronger financial situation than my father, he had little time for life’s fineries. He was happiest spending hours tramping through the mountains and camping with his children. I have clear memories of Gordon, whistling tunelessly away to himself while throwing his boots and rucksack into the back of the car, his smiling face a picture of contentment. Unlike my father, he had little interest in sport or music but, as well as sharing a sense of humour, they both loved the wild uplands of Britain, where they would spend many hours together walking and laughing. This cemented their friendship in such a way that Jean and Gordon, with their three sons, Alastair, Martin and Douglas, would spend several family holidays with us in the years to come.