He was very different in character from Hector, maintaining a dignified silence in the passenger seat of the car, as he surveyed the scene around him with noble indifference. There was one occasion, however, when Dan revealed a deeper side to his character.

A journalist from the Far East had come to interview Alf for a magazine article. They had driven around the countryside with Dan in the back seat, before stopping at a pub for lunch. On their return to the car, they were shocked to discover that Dan had torn into pieces the notes the journalist had left on the car seat. This was completely out of character – the only time in his entire life that he had shown any destructive tendencies. Did the big dog know that in parts of the Far East, people ate dogs? And was this his way of lodging his protest? Never again would Dan display such behaviour.

Dan’s companionship was a great comfort following Hector’s death, but it would be less than four years before Alf had to face, again, the distress of losing a dog. One day in 1981, after weeks of agonising over such a difficult decision, he asked me to put Dan to sleep. With the old dog having been weakening for some time with advanced arthritis of the hips, Alf had tried everything to help him, but his time had come. Dan lies buried in the field behind my father’s house.

Many argue that, once having lost a pet, it is impossible to find another to take its place. Alf, who wasted no time in acquiring another pet, thought differently. Many dogs occupied different stages of his life; every one had its own distinctive personality and each one left its own particular memories.

It was during the decade following the mid 1970s that James Herriot’s massive contribution, not only to the image of the veterinary profession, but to the feeling of well-being within the community as a whole, was fully recognised. With his writing having brought pleasure to millions, honours began to be showered upon him. It is well-nigh impossible to enumerate every recognition of respect that was bestowed on Alf Wight, but some of them were particularly special.

It was a proud moment for all the family when we saw the New Year’s honours list in the newspaper on 30 December 1978. We had known in advance that my father was to receive the Order of the British Empire in recognition of his services to literature, but to see it in print was particularly thrilling.

It was an unforgettable experience when Alfred Wight received his honour from the Prince of Wales at the ceremony in Buckingham Palace at the end of the following February. As I looked at him, I cast my mind back almost twenty years to the time he began writing stories simply because it was something he had always wanted to do. Who would have thought that those unpretentious but charming accounts of life so long ago in far-off Yorkshire would have led to James Alfred Wight shaking hands with the Prince of Wales?

It was, also, a memorable evening the night before. Courtesy of Pan Books, a splendid party had been arranged for us – and for those with whom my father was connected in the world of publishing. As we quaffed never-ending glasses of champagne that helped to forge effortless friendships with total strangers, I remember thinking what a wonderful life it was, being the son of such a famous man.

True to his character, he talked very little of this honour, proud though he was to receive it. One day, many years later, after writing another colossal cheque to the Inland Revenue, he said to us, ‘I think I know the reason why I received the OBE. By remaining in this country and paying so much tax, I must have been largely responsible for the continuing solvency of Her Majesty’s Government!’

He was, however, to receive some compensation. An elegant envelope arrived one morning in October 1979. An equally impressive piece of paper within, from Buckingham Palace, said that Her Majesty the Queen requested the honour of the company of Alfred Wight for lunch. I remember goggling at the invitation while he simply said, ‘I don’t think I can decline this one, do you?’

The family, understandably, was intrigued to hear all about it and bombarded him with questions on his return from the Palace.

I asked him if he had sat next to her.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘They stuck some minor individual between myself and the Queen.’

‘Who was that?’ I asked.

He smiled gently. ‘The Governor of the Bank of England.’

As he lunched in the magnificent dining-room, a footman at attention behind every chair, his memory flickered back almost fifty years to the penniless young vet, seated in his tiny car in the Yorkshire Dales, chewing at his cheese sandwiches.

On this occasion there was no clear water from the moorland streams to complement his meagre lunch; instead, he drank a number of the finest wines. He made sure that he did not consume too much, which was a wise decision since, eventually, he was summoned to a private audience with the Queen. He found her to be a most approachable and delightful person with a sharp sense of humour and an infectious laugh. My father told us that she had said that his books were some of the few that had made her ‘laugh out loud’.

It is understandable that she would have enjoyed the books of James Herriot. Not only would the humour have appealed to her but she is, of course, such a genuine animal lover.

On his departure from the Palace, he observed the other guests stepping into a succession of chauffeur-driven limousines. He was about to hail a taxi when one of these prestigious vehicles glided up to offer him a lift. It was none other than that ‘minor individual’, who was in fact Sir Robert Clark, chairman of Hill Samuel and Co. He was a most likeable man who provided my father with the perfect conclusion to a memorable day.

The following evening, I was having a drink with my father and two of his farming friends, Billy Bell and Gordon Bainbridge, in the Three Tuns Hotel in Thirsk. Many subjects were discussed but not once did he mention his day out at Buckingham Palace. James Herriot the author was, once again, Alf Wight the vet.

On another occasion, in June 1983, he was again in the company of royalty. He and Joan were invited to a private dinner given by Dick and Mary Francis in honour of the Queen Mother. Dick Francis, author of many best-selling books about the world of horse racing, was one of the famous people Alf got to know well and he was probably one of his favourites – a modest and charming man with whom he kept in touch throughout their almost parallel climb up the ladder of fame. Both men were published by Michael Joseph and Pan; both had Anthea Joseph and then Jenny Dereham as editor.

In July 1979, he received an Honorary Doctorate of Literature from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. On his return from the ceremony, he seemed almost stunned to have received it. ‘I felt a little out of place,’ he told us, ‘among so many intellectual giants. Me, the simple little country vet!’ A photograph of the ceremony shows that characteristically vague and bemused expression on his face.

Almost five years later, in March 1984, he received a special British Tourist Authority Award for ‘Helping to create a greater awareness throughout the world, of Britain’s attractions’. At a ceremony in London, Sir Henry Marking, the BTA chairman, said: ‘The name of James Herriot seems to leap out from every bookstall and every TV screen in the world … I am sure James Herriot never thought of himself as a travel promoter but “Herriot Country” is now well and truly established on the international tourist map, ranking in appeal alongside “Shakespeare Country” and “Burns Country”. Through his work, James Herriot has helped to bring new prosperity and employment to a great county already so rich in literary heritage, history and beauty.’