ONE of my pleasures on a chilly winter day is viewing, telly-wise, a recording of a film entitled All Creatures Great and Small. Released as a cinema film in the springtime of 1970, it has a fine Yorkshire setting, an engrossing plot and some lively tunes.

I first became aware of vets when I married a West Craven farmer’s daughter. The film version had been based on the first two Herriot novels penned by Alf Wight, the celebrated vet who trained in Scotland but was employed on veterinary matters at Thirsk. His boss, Donald Sinclair, had previously been a Ministry vet based in the Craven town of Settle. He had paid Alf £4 a week.

The major role in the colour film All Creatures Great and Small was undertaken by Simon Ward, a Southerner who had previously had the role of Churchill in the film Young Winston. Simon settled down happily in the North. He became familiar with a large slice of the Yorkshire Dales.

Joan, Alf’s wife, had been referred to as Helen of the books. The film, which has greatly appealed to me, ended at a dalehead during a “testing honeymoon”. The work of tuberculin-testing cows was overdue. James Herriot and Helen, his new wife, spent part of the time with the livestock.

Alf injected the cows, calling out appropriate skin measurements. These were jotted down by Helen. The film ended with them standing beside a five-barred gate, beyond which was a glorious stretch of dale country. The newlyweds kissed. A note recorded that this worthy film had been “shot” in Yorkshire.

I got to know Alf Wight, the author of the world-famous Herriot books, when I had been invited to officiate at the opening of a craft trail at Thirsk, I wrote to Alf asking for an appointment for a chat. His affirmative reply was by phone. We met at a large but secluded house at the end of a village lying just off the road from Thirsk to Sutton Bank.

In great contrast was a typical dalehead farmhouse he had described as “big and flagged”. You could not help but feel sorry for the women who had to work in such a cold, draughty place. A literary farmer’s wife who opened the door when Alf arrived was almost certainly wearing an apron made of sacking. Sometimes she had clogs on her feet.

Huge sides of fat bacon hung from hooks driven into the ceiling. It was recalled that you had to duck your head to avoid brushing against them. Said Alf: “Bacon was what they lived on. Every time you went in to a kitchen there was the lovely smell of bacon being cooked.”

James Herriot travelled across the Dales in “a funny, unheated, old Austin 10”. The floor had been scarred. Every time he went over a puddle, muddy water would splash up into his face. The windscreen became patterned with cracks. “There was only one or two places I could peer through.”

Sales of the Herriot books “took off” when a copy was sent to a publisher in New York. He had initially put it on one side. The publisher’s wife read it and said: “You’ve got a winner here.” He had. Success was experienced by a “vet and scribbler”.