North Yorkshire: Beginnings
First Trip to Yorkshire, God’s Own Country
The county of Yorkshire was probably the first county in England I ever read about. Way back in 1990 my grandmother gave me a beautiful copy of The Secret Garden. Within that illustrated book’s pages I became familiar with the Yorkshire moors and speaking in "broad Yorkshire." And then, there came the fateful day I picked up a copy of James Herriot's All Creatures Great and Small* at a discount bookstore in the Mall St. Matthews in Louisville while waiting on my student husband to get off work at Chick-Fil-A.
I recognized Yorkshire-speak in the pages of James Herriot, and I laughed and cried as I read the stories of a keen observer of human nature and the natural world around him. I loved the first book so much I proceeded to read the entire series aloud to my husband in the early years of our marriage. Each Sunday morning we’d drive 40 minutes through the Kentucky countryside to our little church on a ridge, weeping with laughter at the antics of Tristan Farnon. We were swept away to the Yorkshire Dales through the vivid pictures James Herriot (author and vet Alf Wight) painted in our minds. Little could we imagine that our own life story would lead to North Yorkshire, too.
In October 2011 my husband and I traveled to England for our 7th wedding anniversary, driving a circular route around the country that took us past some of our favorite places in literature and history. Our fond memories of reading James Herriot’s stories together earned North Yorkshire a stop on our route, specifically at The World of James Herriot in Thirsk.
When we arrived, we stood outside our rental car trying to figure out how to pay for parking, two typically clueless Americans in a foreign country. A gentleman approached us at a brisk walk: “I think I’m supposed to be meeting you. Are you the Americans we’re expecting?”
I exchanged confused glances with my husband as we told him we were Americans (as he must have inferred by overhearing our conversation about parking), but we didn’t think anyone knew we were coming.
“You’re here for the interview? I’m Jim Wight.”
Well, I knew who Jim Wight was because I’d read his book, The Real James Herriot: A Memoir of My Father* when my husband gave it to me as a Christmas gift 3 years earlier. This was James Herriot’s son!
Jim Wight and I in front of “Skeldale House”
He was there that morning to discuss the release of his father’s books into digital formats for e- readers, and since these other mysterious Americans were late, we had the pleasure of talking with him about how much we loved his father’s stories, and he kindly agreed to take a picture with us. Meeting him infused the day with extra delight.
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