The James Herriot series.
I’d all but forgotten about these books really, until I unearthed them on an enforced clear out of my parents attic. You know the type, the old “you moved out 11 years ago, get your stuff out of our house” type clear out. Mum and I sat on the attic floor surrounded by books whilst Ian tore out his hair downstairs, occasionally yelling up a ‘please Jo….no more books….’ We had two piles: a ‘send to the mobile library’ and a ‘take home with me’ and much to Ian’s despair the take home pile was winning. It was Mum’s fault “ooohhhh looooooook, it’s Stig of the Dump. You used to love that….*gasp* the family from one end street! *chuckle* pardon me your stepping on my eyeball, remember how much you loved that. Oh no love, you can’t throw away your Enid Blytons….’ And, in the back of the cupboard were my charity shop copies of the James Herriot books. I read them about 14 years ago, when I was I my mid teens and I just remember points where I laughed so hard I could barely read. James Herriot is a country vet and the books are basically his true life account of the animals (and people) he encounters. They can be sad at times, they can be hilariously funny at others and they’re consistently well-written – or so I remember anyway – with the characters being so well drawn that you can picture every little detail so clearly.
