He and Joan stayed in the West Scrafton cottage regularly, in all weathers and at all times of the year. Here, he would walk his dogs endless miles over the green tracks while drinking in the sweet, clear air of the high dales. There was nowhere he would have rather been.
It was an idyllic spot in the summer, but in the darker months of the year, West Scrafton could show a different side to its nature. One late October afternoon, he was walking his dogs along the road towards the neighbouring hamlet of Swineside. His head was lowered to protect himself from the driving rain, screaming in from the surrounding moors. On the road, he met one of the local farmers, surrounded by cows and elegantly attired in a torn mackintosh, around which was an ancient hessian sack held in place with a piece of string. The road was running with water and mud.
The farmer paused in the lee of one of the stone buildings before raising his weather-beaten face to Alf. He shouted above the noise of the wind. ‘Afternoon, Mr Wight!’
‘It’s not much of a day!’ yelled Alf in response.
‘Nay, you’re right!’ continued the farmer, looking around him at the desolate scene. ‘You’re ’avin’ a bit o’ holiday up ’ere, eh?’
‘Yes, just having a nice break from the practice.’
The farmer scrutinised the damp figure before him. Everyone in the village knew who he was; they all knew he had the means to spend his holidays on sun-drenched beaches in exotic locations. The farmer had spent almost his entire life working in the village, and a hard life it had been. Many people are entranced by the beautiful scenery of the Yorkshire Dales, but those who try to make a living out of the place can sometimes take a different view.
The farmer looked again at the rippling puddles in the road, the rapidly darkening sky and the filthy wet dogs standing expectantly at Alf’s feet. He looked him steadily in the face before turning to set off after the mass of cows. A puzzled look passed over his features as he paused for a final word. ‘Why der yer come ’ ere?’
Whilst not really enjoying the massive publicity that surrounded him, Alf was, in fact, making matters worse for himself; he was still seated in front of the television with his typewriter. He did it for neither fame nor fortune; he simply loved writing. With lists of ‘headings’ secreted away in the drawers of his desk, there was still plenty of material.
Between the years of 1978 and 1981, two more books appeared. One of these was to sell more copies in hardback than any of his previous six and was largely responsible for the never-ending coachloads of tourists pouring into his part of England. This book – one that he almost never wrote – was destined to become his greatest best-seller. It was called James Herriot’s Yorkshire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
One day in 1978, my father called me to his house in Thirlby. ‘Jim,’ he said, I want to ask you something.’ I always knew when he was going to mention something important; he spoke slowly and quietly with a slight trace of uncertainty.
‘Michael Joseph would like to produce a picture book of those parts of Yorkshire I have made famous through my writing. It would be accompanied by a text, written by me. They want to call it James Herriot’s Yorkshire’
His eyes were now focused directly on mine as he continued. ‘What do you think of the idea? Do you think that my words alongside photographs would interest people?’
I felt somewhat flattered that this established best-selling author valued my opinion, but I was not really surprised. Although not without confidence in his own ability, he continually sought suggestions from others – maintaining until the end of his life that he was simply ‘an amateur at the writing game’.
I thought for a few moments. ‘No, Dad. I don’t think that it’s a good idea at all.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why should someone from, say, California, want to look at some pokey little corner of Swaledale?’ I replied confidently. ‘These places bring back great memories for us, but I can’t see the fascination in them for anyone else. Forget it. It won’t sell.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He lapsed into thought and dropped the subject.
He must have listened to me because he told his publishers that he had serious misgivings about the project. However, their persuasive arguments finally won the day, and Alf agreed to go ahead. This beautifully illustrated book, the inspired idea of Alan Brooke, then editorial director at Michael Joseph – and whose concept received wholehearted support from Alf’s editor Anthea Joseph – went on to become a mega best-seller, far exceeding all his previous books. It became the ‘essential companion’ for the thousands of fans from all over the world who flocked to see those ‘pokey little corners’ of Yorkshire that I had confidently predicted would hold no interest for them.
The dubious quality of my advice was emphatically illustrated some sixteen years later. In 1995, four months after my father’s death, Rosie and I took part in a BBC television programme about outdoor activities called ‘Tracks’. Part of this weekly programme described those walks that were particular favourites of selected celebrities and, for James Herriot’s favourite, we had chosen to film the programme in the upper reaches of Swaledale.
This wild and unspoilt area figures largely in the Yorkshire book. He loved it for its beauty and loneliness but we were not alone for long on that occasion. I was astonished to see a coach disgorge a throng of American tourists who strode purposefully past us, many of them clutching their copy of James Herriot’s Yorkshire] Sixteen years after publication, it still held its fascination for so many of his fans.
This book was published in 1979 and is totally factual. Such was its success that it became the trailblazer for many look-alike publications, including Wynford Vaughan-Thomas’s Wales, Poldark’s Cornwall, Catherine Cookson’s Northumberlandand the highly popular series of books by the enigmatic fellwalker, Alfred Wainwright. My father loved reading Wainwright’s books; he wrote simply, but with great feeling, for the high country of the British Isles, especially the Lake District and Scotland, and I feel sure that had he and my father met, they would have had much in common.
The superb photographs in James Herriot’s Yorkshirewere taken by the freelance photographer, Derry Brabbs; it was his first book and its tremendous success was to make his name. He was to go on and illustrate many more of the books that would follow in its wake, including the Wainwright series.
Derry was chosen in a somewhat bizarre fashion. Nowadays, photographic agencies would be asked to submit the portfolios of their major clients but not so in 1978. Michael Joseph decided that a Yorkshire-based photographer would be best, for obvious reasons: not only would he or she be close at hand, but would already understand the vagaries of the Yorkshire weather. The firm’s managing director, Victor Morrison – who, with his considerable flair for design, oversaw the book’s production – had a secretary whose husband was a freelance photographer. He was consulted and suggested that a simple way to start would be to check the Yellow Pagesdirectories for Yorkshire, under the heading PHOTOGRAPHERS, and see what emerged. Victor Morrison did just that and compiled a list. Derry Brabbs, having the luck to have a surname starting with B, was approached first of all – and the search for a photographer ended there.