Zusatztext "Inspiring and heartwarming . . . A fascinating look at the man behind the bestselling books that touched so many lives." --JACK CANFIELD Author of Chicken Soup for the Soul "Detailed and thorough . . . The real-life models for the colorful characters and incidents in the Herriot books are lovingly explained throughout, making the book feel like an earnest 'making of' documentary." --The New York Times Book Review Informationen zum Autor Jim Wight, born in 1943, followed in his father's footsteps at the Glasgow Veterinary College, which by then was part of the University of Glasgow, graduating in 1966. In 1967 he joined the practice of Sinclair and Wight in Thirsk, working alongside his father and Donald Sinclair (aka Siegfried Famon) for the next twenty years, when Alf Wight retired. He is still a member of the practice. Jim Wight and his wife, Gill, have a son and two daughters. They live in a village below Sutton Bank near Thirsk. Klappentext No one is better poised to write the biography of James Herriot than the son who worked alongside him in the Yorkshire veterinary practice when Herriot became an internationally bestselling author. Now, in this warm and poignant biography, Jim Wight ventures beyond his father's life as a veterinarian to reveal the man behind the stories--the private individual who refused to allow fame and wealth to interfere with his practice or his family. With access to all of his father's papers, correspondence, manuscripts, and photographs--and intimate recollections of the farmers, locals, and friends who populate the James Herriot books--only Jim Wight could write this definitive biography of the man who was not only his father but his best friend. Leseprobe 23 February 1995 was a beautiful day in my part of North Yorkshire. From the top of Sutton Bank on the western edge of the North York Moors National Park, it was possible to see right across the Vale of York to the Yorkshire Dales over thirty miles away. The sun shone brightly out of a cloudless winter sky and I could clearly see the familiar bulk of Pen Hill, standing majestically over the entrance to Wensleydale -- the fresh whiteness of its snow-dusted slopes in vivid contrast to the dark green dale below. It was a cold, crisp, perfect winter's day, one that normally would have had me longing to walk for mile after mile in the clean air. It was a day when I should have felt glad to be alive. The timeless magic of the Dales has always thrilled me but, on that brilliant February day, my mood was one of emptiness, as I knew that I would never again gaze across at those distant hills without a feeling of nostalgia and regret. On that day a great friend had did. His name was James Alfred Wight, a father in whose company I had spent countless happy hours. A man I shall never forget. I was not alone in my sorrow. On that same day, others all over the world were also mourning the loss of a friend. His name was James Herriot, the country practitioner whose skill as a writer had elevated him to the statue of the world's most famous and best-loved veterinary surgeon. This incredibly successful storyteller, who sold more than 60 million books which had been translated into over twenty languages, wrote with such warmth, humour and sincerity that he was regarded as a friend by all who read him. James Alfred Wight, the real James Herriot, was every inch the gentleman his many fans imagined him to be. He was a completely modest man who remained bemused by his success until the end of his life, yet this self-confessed 'run of the mill vet' is likely to be remembered for decades to come. My own memories of him, however, are not of a famous author but of a father who always put the interests of his family ahead of his own. I think it is true to say that in everyone's life, no matter how happy they may be, there is always a dark cloud...

Autorentext

Jim Wight, born in 1943, followed in his father's footsteps at the Glasgow Veterinary College, which by then was part of the University of Glasgow, graduating in 1966. In 1967 he joined the practice of Sinclair and Wight in Thirsk, working alongside his father and Donald Sinclair (aka Siegfried Famon) for the next twenty years, when Alf Wight retired. He is still a member of the practice.

Jim Wight and his wife, Gill, have a son and two daughters. They live in a village below Sutton Bank near Thirsk.

Klappentext

No one is better poised to write the biography of James Herriot than the son who worked alongside him in the Yorkshire veterinary practice when Herriot became an internationally bestselling author. Now, in this warm and poignant biography, Jim Wight ventures beyond his father's life as a veterinarian to reveal the man behind the stories--the private individual who refused to allow fame and wealth to interfere with his practice or his family. With access to all of his father's papers, correspondence, manuscripts, and photographs--and intimate recollections of the farmers, locals, and friends who populate the James Herriot books--only Jim Wight could write this definitive biography of the man who was not only his father but his best friend.

Leseprobe
23 February 1995 was a beautiful day in my part of North Yorkshire. From the top of Sutton Bank on the western edge of the North York Moors National Park, it was possible to see right across the Vale of York to the Yorkshire Dales over thirty miles away. The sun shone brightly out of a cloudless winter sky and I could clearly see the familiar bulk of Pen Hill, standing majestically over the entrance to Wensleydale -- the fresh whiteness of its snow-dusted slopes in vivid contrast to the dark green dale below. It was a cold, crisp, perfect winter's day, one that normally would have had me longing to walk for mile after mile in the clean air. It was a day when I should have felt glad to be alive.

The timeless magic of the Dales has always thrilled me but, on that brilliant February day, my mood was one of emptiness, as I knew that I would never again gaze across at those distant hills without a feeling of nostalgia and regret. On that day a great friend had did. His name was James Alfred Wight, a father in whose company I had spent countless happy hours. A man I shall never forget.

I was not alone in my sorrow. On that same day, others all over the world were also mourning the loss of a friend. His name was James Herriot, the country practitioner whose skill as a writer had elevated him to the statue of the world's most famous and best-loved veterinary surgeon. This incredibly successful storyteller, who sold more than 60 million books which had been translated into over twenty languages, wrote with such warmth, humour and sincerity that he was regarded as a friend by all who read him.

James Alfred Wight, the real James Herriot, was every inch the gentleman his many fans imagined him to be. He was a completely modest man who remained bemused by his success until the end of his life, yet this self-confessed 'run of the mill vet' is likely to be remembered for decades to come. My own memories of him, however, are not of a famous author but of a father who always put the interests of his family ahead of his own.

I think it is true to say that in everyone's life, no matter how happy they may be, there is always a dark cloud somewhere on the horizon.

My own particular cloud had been my father's health which had given the family cause for concern for concern for a number of years; it had assumed threatening proportions in December 1991 when I learned that he had cancer, and the final blow fell when he died just over three years later.

On 20 October 1995, some eight months after my father's death, I found myself seated in the front row of York Minster, surely one of the most beautiful cathedrals in the world. The occasion was the Memorial Service for James Herriot, to which over 2,300 people had come to pay …