The farmer displayed no emotion. ‘’E’s just one o’ the boys round ’ere!’ he replied.

This is exactly how Alf wanted to be known. He did not seek deference from those people he had known for so long. ‘The farmers round here couldn’t care less about my book-writing activities. If one of them has a cow with its ‘calf-bed’ hanging out, he doesn’t want to see Charles Dickens rolling up!’

This casual approach to his fame by the local people was illustrated by an incident that remained etched in his memory. In 1974, when Alf had four published books to his name, BBC Television cameras descended on Thirsk. They were there to film for the ‘Nationwide’ programme – and the object of their attention was James Herriot and his meteoric rise to fame. The film crews were there all day. Zoom lenses homed in on him as he calved cows, cameras were held inches from his face as he drove from farm to farm, and the premises at 23 Kirkgate were festooned with all the latest in modern technical equipment and what seemed like miles of cable. It was a long and tiring day.

It was well into evening surgery when the director finally said to Alf, ‘Mr Wight, would it be possible – just to round everything off nicely – to interview one of the interesting old characters that you talk about in your books? Can you think of anyone?’

‘There happens to be a man in the waiting-room who would fit the bill perfectly,’ replied my father, pleased to be able to take a break from the exhausting schedule. ‘His name is Mr Hogg, an engaging chap, and a well-respected breeder of sheepdogs.’

Not only was Mr Hogg, a farmer from nearby Kilvington indeed, something of a character, he was also a good talker. He revelled in his appearance in front of the cameras, and the director got more than his money’s worth.

When the interview had finally ended, the farmer sidled up to the director and whispered quietly into his ear. ‘I ’eard that yer wanted ter talk to a local character. Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ replied the director.

Mr Hogg’s voice sank to a whisper. He pointed a soiled finger towards Alf. ‘Yer should ’ave a word wi’ Mr Wight. ’E’s a very interestin’ feller!’

‘Oh yes?’ said the director.

‘Aye! In fact, Ah’ll tell tha summat!’ He put his face even closer to the director’s ear. ‘Don’t let it go no further, like, but … just between you an’ me … Ah’ve ’eard ’e’s written a couple o’ books!’

In tandem with the literary success, there were many happy occasions in the first half of the 1970s. In September 1973, Rosie was married and twelve months later it was my turn to leave the family home. I was thirty-one years old and I think my parents were pretty relieved that I had finally taken the plunge. Having been living at home for almost seven years, they were beginning to think that I was going to be a permanent resident.

One of the happiest events occurred in May 1973 when our beloved football team, Sunderland – against all the odds – beat Leeds United in the FA Cup Final. This, the most coveted prize in the English game, had last been won by Sunderland way back in 1937.

Alf travelled to Wembley with his old friend Guy Rob, and I well remember the smiling, swaying figure staggering back home that Saturday night. In 1990, he wrote about that memorable day in a newspaper article:

‘When the referee blew the final whistle at Wembley and I found myself dancing with my arms round a distinguished-looking gentleman in a camel coat who was a total stranger, I felt that from that moment on I could die happy.’

Alf derived enormous pleasure and satisfaction from his literary achievements, but nothing would thrill him more than watching that tremendous victory for the red and whites.

There were other less happy events. In June 1972, Joan’s brother, Joe Danbury, died in hospital following a protracted illness. This distinguished and good-natured man was liked by everyone and his death was a severe blow, especially to Joan.

Then, on the last day of December 1973, Alf’s great friend and colleague, Gordon Rae, died. Despite his dedication to physical fitness, Gordon had developed severe arthritis in both hips, followed by a series of heart attacks. His death was felt keenly by both Alf and Joan. Their weekly Thursday outings to Harrogate were a little darker without Gordon’s open and laughing face. He was one of the most likeable men Alf had had the privilege of knowing.

At his funeral, Alf and Joan recalled their impecunious days of the 1960s when, unable to afford the cost of dinner out to celebrate their silver wedding anniversary, Gordon and Jean Rae had saved the day. As Alf had also just had his 50th birthday, he was asked where he would like to spend the occasion. ‘The Double Luck Chinese restaurant!’ had been his immediate response. The occasion was to be modest, but both enjoyable and delicious – and one that would, for ever, be fondly remembered by Alf and Joan.

Joan’s mother, Laura Danbury, who had lived with us for so many years, outlived her son, Joe, but by only three years. In the final twelve months of her life she was confined to a nursing-home in Ripon. She was almost blind and my wife, Gillian, used to read her extracts from my father’s first books. The old lady would lie back in bed and listen attentively to every word that was said. She always thought the world of her son-in-law and she loved his stories as well.

Alf, in return, had a great regard for his quiet and gentle mother-in-law who, even a day or two before her death, had the complexion of a young girl. He often said to me, ‘Before you think of marrying someone, have a good look at her mother. More often than not, she will turn out to be like her!’ Perhaps he had gazed long and hard at Laura Danbury before marrying Joan all those years ago in 1941.

Another less than happy event occurred in 1975 when Rosie divorced her husband, Chris Page. She moved back to Thirsk with her baby daughter, Emma, and her life soon began to improve as she began work as a doctor in general practice in the town. She received enormous help from her parents in raising Emma who spent most of her childhood in the company of her grandparents. The four of them spent many holidays together, the majority of them in Alf’s, and Rosie’s, favourite surroundings – the lochs and mountains of north-west Scotland. When Emma was older, they travelled abroad on holiday, but the magic of Scotland always had a special place in their hearts.

One of their favourite haunts was the Ardnamurchan peninsula, the most westerly point of the British Isles. This is a quiet and lonely spot but, when the weather is kind, it is an area of haunting beauty, with magnificent white beaches, and views out towards the islands of Rhum, Eigg and Skye. Alf had always loved the wild and lonely places of Britain, and each time he stood on the beach at Sanna Bay, staring across the sea to the mystical blue peaks of the Cuillins of Skye, he felt a particular thrill that no other place in the world could give him.

This was a peaceful retreat where he felt a million miles from the media pressure. He was always grateful that his fame as an author, rather than a star of the screen, meant that he went largely unrecognised. He was, therefore, somewhat surprised one day, while on holiday in Scotland, to be approached by a man.

It was in 1986 and the book James Herriot’s Dog Storieshad recently been published. On the jacket of this book is a picture of him with his Border Terrier, Bodie, and Rosie’s yellow Labrador, Polly. The man walked up to him and said, ‘Excuse me, but wid ye be, by any chance, James Herriot?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am,’ he replied, ‘but how on earth did you know? I didn’t think that my face was well known?’

‘Oh no, it wisnae you I recognised,’ continued the man. ‘It wis the twa dugs!’