by Jim Wight
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.’
Alfred Wight had certainly boosted the economy of North Yorkshire. Such was his fame by now, that small businesses began using his name. ‘Herriot’ cafés, guest houses and hotels sprang up to make good profits out of the tourists who continued to pour into the area. An advertisement for one hotel particularly amused him. A part of its brochure read, ‘Welcome to “Herriot Country”, the home of the world’s most famous vet … No pets.’
Alf derived great satisfaction out of this boom in the tourist trade. Although some of the local people were not too pleased that their part of the world had become such a focus of attention, and turned an unfriendly eye towards so many strangers invading their patch, Alf often said, ‘I have put money into a lot of pockets around here and that has to be a good thing.’
Others agreed with him. In April 1984, he was the first winner of the Yorkshire Salver – awarded in recognition of services to Yorkshire and its people. He received his award at a ceremony in Leeds and was nominated for ‘Putting Yorkshire on the international map and bringing tourists, trade and employment as a result.’
Alf Wight was proud to receive such awards but some that gave him the greatest thrill were those bestowed on him by his own profession. As early as 1975, he had been made an honorary member of the British Veterinary Association and, seven years later, on 8 June 1982, he received his Fellowship of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons. This recognition, from the profession of which he was always particularly proud to be a member, meant a great deal to him. The words delivered that day by the College’s President, Peter Hignett, were very perceptive:
‘The Veterinary Profession owed Alf Wight a considerable debt of gratitude … not only because he had presented the profession to members of the public as a concerned and caring body of men and women but because he had never at any time sacrificed the respect of his colleagues for the popularity of public acclaim. The profession is proud of him and the way he has conducted himself in a situation which would have turned many a lesser man’s head.’
In 1984, he received an honorary degree of Doctor of Veterinary Science from the University of Liverpool with, again, the emphasis being on his contribution to the image of his profession.
This tremendous enhancement of the popularity of his profession had been recognised very quickly by veterinarians in the USA. The American Veterinary Medical Association had honoured him as early as 1975, and he was particularly pleased to read a review of his work, in that same year, by Professor Eric Williams of the Oklahoma State University College of Veterinary Medicine.
Professor Williams, who was a veterinary practitioner in his native Wales before emigrating in 1961, highlighted one aspect of James Herriot’s writing – the authenticity of his accounts of veterinary life. This was something with which veterinarians all over the world could identify. In his review of All Things Bright and Beautiful, Professor Williams wrote:
‘Here is a brilliant, honest, lucid day-by-day-and-night, exposition of the triumphs and despairing moments of veterinary practice …. James Herriot’s honest revelations come as a much needed tonic and reassurance to a world which appears to be going mad when daily we are faced with crime, scandal and vanishing moral standards. I am overjoyed that my colleague portrays so well the bonds of trust and friendship with his clients which are the basis for a successful professional life … to aspiring veterinarians, here is a superb thesis on veterinary practice.’
Eric Williams remained a staunch supporter of my father and his effect upon the profession. For many years, he was the Editor of the Bovine Practitioner, the official journal of the American Association of Bovine Practitioners. In 1982, Alf was the very first recipient of honorary membership of that association. Although proud to receive such an honour he, as we expected, declined to visit America for the presentation – but it still took place. A delegation of the association, including Eric Williams, came to Yorkshire and presented Alf with his honour at the Three Tuns Hotel in Thirsk.
How he enjoyed that evening! He was able to swap experiences with his colleagues from the other side of the Atlantic and listen to the successes and failures that are common to veterinarians the world over.
Alf received countless offers to travel around the world and receive the many honours that kept coming his way but, by the beginning of the 1980s, he began to feel overwhelmed by his ever-increasing fame, and politely either refused them or received them in absentia. He even declined to appear on the front page of the enormously influential Time magazine – something that could have propelled his fame to even dizzier heights. He stuck to his regular excuse that he was ‘one per cent author and ninety-nine per cent veterinary surgeon’.
From 1980, Sinclair and Wight was a five-person practice. With Alf’s workload being lighter than it had been, he had plenty of time, had he so wished, to rush round the world furthering his image. The real reason for his reluctance was that he had had enough. He was determined to prevent the relentless publicity taking him over and he wanted, quite simply, to be left alone. Nothing was going to change his way of life, and it was his success in maintaining this ideal that was largely responsible for his continuing happiness in the face of an avalanche of publicity that could so easily have overwhelmed him.
Now Alf Wight, the retiring family man, was coming to a decision that would disappoint millions of his fans. He declared in 1981 that he would write no more books.
It was becoming impossible to completely dodge the spotlight. Everyone knew who he was. Tourists poured into the surgery while ever-bigger waves of fan mail were stuffed through his letter box. One envelope was addressed to ‘James Herriot, Darrowby, Scotland’; it homed in on the unwilling celebrity like all the others.
In a newspaper article in July 1981, following an exhausting promotional tour of Britain after the publication of The Lord God Made Them All, Alf made the following statement:
‘I feel I just have to escape. I’m nearly sixty-five and all I want is a bit of a rest. I’ve never been one for the limelight and now, all I want is to get back to normal. I want to spend more time with my grandchildren. I want to start enjoying again the things I used to enjoy, gardening and walking. I want to get involved again in the thing I do best, my work as a vet. At this very moment, the very mention of writing makes me want to scream.’
His massive literary success had brought him a sense of deep satisfaction but, for someone who did not enjoy the attendant publicity, it was becoming a burden. Life at home among his family and friends, and around the farms of North Yorkshire, was closer to his heart.
Alfred Wight fully appreciated the tremendous benefits writing had bestowed upon him but he was acutely aware of something else; he had been a happy man long before James Herriot walked into his life. He was, indeed, grateful for all James Herriot had done for him, but the time had now come to show him the door.
Chapter Twenty-seven
One of the greatest benefits bestowed upon Alf Wight by his friend James Herriot – financial security – was enhanced by the election to power of a Conservative government in 1979. Its lower levels of personal taxation meant that Alf could retain a higher proportion of his earnings so, by 1981, he could consider himself a millionaire.
He was not an inspired businessman but, more importantly, he had common sense. He had no
desire to stretch his financial horizons to the limit, while words like ‘Off-shore Investments’ and ‘Split Capital Trusts’ meant little to him. A distrust of the stockmarket, coupled with a cautious approach to investing money, led to his missing out on the great share bull market of the 1980s, but he lost little sleep over this. He retained his distrust of ‘smart deals’ and ‘unbeatable offers’ until the end, and a favourite expression was ‘Beware glossy brochures!’
He certainly derived a great deal of pleasure out of his money and was very generous with it. From as early as 1977, he worked in the practice for only £2,000 per year – a change that benefited not only myself, but Donald Sinclair, too. In one year, after deducting car expenses from his practice profits, he was left with little over £1,000 to show for a year’s veterinary work.
Bob Rickaby, his accountant, was aghast. ‘Alf, you have worked for a whole year for the practice and you have earned no more than you did in 1946!’
His response was to simply shrug his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry about it Bob. I couldn’t care less!’
Never a greedy man, he was, throughout his life, amazed at the lack of generosity he sometimes observed in others. Although unable to identify with it, he could see the funny side.
I remember him telling me, many years ago, of a visit he made to a shop in Thirsk to buy some fireworks. He asked for some rockets.
Another customer overheard his request and leaned towards him. ‘Don’t buy rockets, Mr Wight,’ he whispered, ‘they ’ave a good selection o’ Roman candles an’ some right good Catherine wheels, at good prices an’ all!’
Alf was mystified. ‘My kids love to see rockets soaring into the sky. Anyway, what’s wrong with the rockets?’
The man eased in closer. ‘Why, everyone else can see ’em!’
Alf could now do the things he wanted, without wondering whether he could afford it. More holidays and meals out with friends figured very prominently. The Thirsk area abounds with fine eating places and Alf always enjoyed his food. Having a cosmopolitan taste, he frequented a wide variety of restaurants but he was never happier than when seated in a Chinese or Indian restaurant having already consumed a few pints of good Yorkshire ale at a nearby pub.
Two of Alf’s greatest friends, Alex Taylor and Brian Sinclair, brightened his life during the 1980s. In 1981, Alex retired from his job in the north of Scotland and, three years later, he and Lynne decided to spend their retirement near Thirsk. Alf was delighted; to have his oldest friend living so close was a wonderful bonus.
Alex’s company was a constant source of enjoyment. From their very first days together in Glasgow, he had always had the capacity to make Alf laugh and, with Joan and Lynne being such good friends, this they all continued to do for ten more years.
Another who never failed to paralyse Alf with laughter was, of course, Brian Sinclair, James Herriot’s Tristan. Following Brian’s retirement in 1977, the two of them met almost every Thursday afternoon in Harrogate. Gordon Rae’s death in 1973 had cast a shadow over my father’s Thursday afternoons, but the appearance of the smiling face of Brian among the crowded bookshelves of W. H. Smith – their favourite meeting place – added, once again, that extra touch of pleasure to those visits to his favourite town. Over several cups of coffee, they would reminisce back to the old days in Thirsk, and Alf would revel in the endless funny stories from Brian’s seemingly inexhaustible repertoire.
One person who especially lightened Alf’s life at this time was his daughter. Never were two people closer than Rosie and her father. Since she lived next door, it was natural they should spend a great deal of time with each other – and they had much in common. Holidays, both at home and abroad, hundreds of miles of dog-walking and regular visits to football matches were favourite occupations. Rosie supplied a constant source of interest and conversation to brighten his days and, in the last years of his life, she – with her mother – would provide him with tremendous support.
Alf stated that one reason for turning his back on the limelight was a desire to spend more time with his grandchildren. By 1981, he had four of them. Emma, Rosie’s daughter, was born in 1975, and my son, Nicholas, in 1976. The dedication in James Herriot’s Yorkshire is to both of them.
My daughter, Zoe, arrived in 1980 and my third child, Katrina, in 1981. The Lord God Made Them All is dedicated to Zoe, and Katrina received her recognition in James Herriot’s Dog Stories.
Alf saw far more of Emma than his other grandchildren. Rosie, as a single parent, received tremendous assistance from her parents in raising Emma, who grew to regard her grandfather more as a father. He was a truly dedicated grandfather and had great patience with her as a small child – walking for miles to pick wild flowers, or reading to her from countless storybooks.
He derived, as many grandfathers do, great pleasure from his grandchildren. All my children are very musical, and I am sorry that my father, who had such an appreciation of music, could not have lived a little longer to hear their performances on the piano, cello and trumpet. He did, however, have the satisfaction of hearing Nicholas play the piano, shortly before winning the St Peter’s School music prize, and he heard Zoe playing the trumpet in a school orchestral performance of the Grand March from Aida.
On the way home from that performance, he kept repeating, ‘Was that really Zoe playing those clear notes?’ I could not help feeling a little grateful to my children; through their playing, the pleasure they gave to their grandfather compensated somewhat for the agony he had had to endure, listening to the comical attempts from his own son all those years ago.
In 1981, another character bounced into Alf Wight’s life – a self-willed, whiskery-faced Border Terrier called Bodie. After the death of his black Labrador, Dan, no time was wasted in finding another four-legged companion and Bodie, Alf’s last dog, was one with a personality all his own. Alf, who had always admired the Border Terrier as a breed, was a happy man on the day he finally owned one.
Bodie, always regarded as a bit of a show-off, was a very photogenic dog who posed rather like a ham actor in the many photographs taken of him with Alf. The tendency to display a haughty superiority over others of his kind was illustrated many times – especially on meeting other male dogs when he would sail into the attack without a second thought. For the first time in his life, the world’s most famous vet needed a lead before he dared to venture forth with his dog.
Another reason for the lead was that this unpredictable little creature could take off into the distance with alarming suddenness. I remember, one late October afternoon, walking with my father, Bodie and my own little Heeler bitch over the wild moorland at the head of Coverdale. Suddenly, Bodie – without any warning – took off like a rocket and disappeared.
After a full half-hour, we were still desperately shouting his name – strangled cries of ‘Bodd … ee! … Bodd … ee!’ issuing from our cupped hands. Darkness was almost upon us as I scanned the bleak horizon, hearing only the sound of my father’s voice which, by then, was no more than a hoarse croak, We had just about given up hope when I finally spotted a small brown form zooming around the opposite hillside in the gathering gloom. I ran over and was able to catch him as he was demolishing a decomposing rabbit.
Bodie’s greatest pal was Rosie’s dog, Polly, a sweet-tempered yellow Labrador who has, like her effervescent little friend, appeared on many photographs with James Herriot. Bodie was the perfect gentleman towards Polly, always allowing her first grab at the biscuits that my father carried in his pocket during his many walks with the two dogs. Looking at Bodie standing patiently beside Polly, it was hard to believe that this was the hooligan who tore into every male dog unfortunate enough to cross his path.
In his later years, Bodie’s energy consumption dipped dramatically and he became bone idle, refusing to go on his daily walks. He was not, however, allowed to become a total degenerate; Alf carried him under his arm on the outward half of his walk leaving Bodie little choice but to return home under his own steam.
Despite these antisocial traits, he was a most appealing dog and his whiskery little face accompanied Alf everywhere. He would sit patiently with him for hours – under his chair while he wrote in his study, or by his side as he watched television. Although frequently referring to his little friend as ‘a bit of a screwball’, Alf loved him dearly.
Bodie, who outlived his master by eighteen months, was a much appreciated companion for Joan in the period following Alf’s death. In 1996 he developed kidney failure and I had the sad task of putting him to sleep. As I did so, I could not help casting my mind back to my father’s very first dog, Don, who also succumbed to kidney failure, fifty-three years previously. Alfred Wight’s first and last dogs – two different characters in their own way, both of them difficult at times, but each one a loyal and wonderful companion.
Alf stated on a television programme in 1990, ‘Vets can be just as silly about their own dogs as the fussiest of our clients!’ This statement certainly describes Alf Wight himself. A large proportion of his life was dedicated to the well-being of his own dogs; whenever outings or holidays were planned, their welfare always received first consideration. Only under the most extreme circumstances would he board any of them in kennels, and the only hotels in Great Britain that Alf and Joan would stay at were ones that catered for dogs. Almost everywhere they went, a hairy face or two was invariably in attendance.
Throughout his years in practice, he was told many times by his clients, ‘You’d better get this dog better, Mr Wight. My missus thinks a lot more about him than she does of me!’ Being a dog lover himself, he could see the grain of truth in the statement. James Herriot writes movingly about the unique bond between people and their pets. The real man, Alf Wight, could have stepped out of any one of those stories.
By the mid 1980s, the practice of Sinclair and Wight was undergoing massive change, with the small animal work becoming increasingly important. By this time, Alf, who was almost seventy years old was, not unnaturally, finding it difficult to keep up with modern techniques, and left the more complicated treatments to his younger colleagues. He was still extremely interested, however, and would watch operations he had no intention of attempting himself. Despite the realisation that he was beginning to lose touch with the rapid advances within his profession, he still had his following among the practice clients; his thoughtful and caring approach to every case – the timeless attribute of the popular veterinary surgeon – was appreciated as much as ever.