Even now, the final programmes are now being filmed of The South Bank Show. This is the superb programme that succeeded Aquarius 30 years ago, and has been dedicated ever since to promoting the arts, whether it be fiction, biography, television documentary or studio performances such as the tremendous Shakespeare seminars of 1979.

For many years, the influence and presence of Melvyn Bragg in his interviews with writers has done more to widen and secure the reputation of authors than any publisher or reviewer.

The programmes I most remember include Bruce Chatwin talking about research, Ruth Rendell discussing her numerous crime studies, the documentary about Orwell based on DJ Taylor's book, and in-depth explorations of the work of JG Ballard, Albert Camus, Harold Pinter and Julian Barnes.

There was also the unforgettable meeting between Bragg and Francis Bacon, in which, rather a lot of liquid refreshment having been taken, we learnt far more than expected about the application of colour and line.

Bragg was unusual in that he never thrust himself forward; he studied the background to his subject, asked the right questions and, as a writer himself, understood what an author was trying to achieve. The withdrawal of the show is an intellectual disaster, though it's possible that he himself feels it's high time he cut down on a heavy workload.

In 1998, I was fortunate enough to have a South Bank programme made about some historical novels I'd written, including the reasons behind tackling such subjects. The first half of the show dealt with The Birthday Boys (which was about Captain Scott going to the South Pole), Everyman for Himself (about the sinking of the Titanic), and newspaper accounts of the Crimean War which was the background to my book, ­Master Georgie.

In the second half, accompanied by my agent, the late, beloved Margaret Hewson, and guided across Europe by young Archie Powell, the South Bank film crew took us to Balaclava, Sevastopol, Inkerman and the Valley of Death, the latter now a vineyard.

Balaclava looked pretty much the same as it had in the photographs taken in 1855. But the poverty was new; the women in stupors of drink in doorways; old men, more ashamed of their dependency, turning their faces away as they held out begging hands; dirt in the streets; rotting ships out in the bay.

The town is situated on an inlet running deeply into the land and behind lies a basin of dark waters surrounded by precipitous heights which rise 100 feet into the air. I think it was at the top of these that I was filmed visiting the monastery built into the rock, though I didn't actually get inside, nor was I greeted by the head monk who, though standing outside in an attitude of welcome, wasn't allowed either to look at or speak to me. Apparently, hearing my voice or gazing into my eyes could have sent him straight to hell.

A day later, we climbed a very steep hill to visit the Crimean War museum where, some hours before, the film crew had given the curator a bottle of whisky, a payment he'd demanded as a reward for services. Alas, by the time I arrived, the bottle was empty and he'd lost the use of his legs.

All good things come to an end. When the lights fade on the last of the South Bank series, I'll remember those lines penned by Thomas Hardy: "Where once we danced, where once we sang, Gentlemen,/the floors are shrunken now and cobwebs hang."