BOLTON has its fair share of individual towns and villages with their own identities.

I remember, when moving to the area more than 30 years ago, how surprised I was to find that older people from Horwich, for example, do not class themselves as Boltonians but prefer to talk about themselves as from Horwich.

With the advent of commuting and younger generations moving around the area it is likely this interesting phenomenon will eventually die out but there are still plenty of Looking Back readers who will be able to confirm what I am saying.

Here 79-year-old Yvonne Neary talks about “her village”, Harwood, and explains how it has changed since the 1930s when she was born.

Her memories of Harwood will, no doubt, stir a few memories for readers and I would love to hear your own recollections of your own towns.

Today Harwood is a suburb of Bolton with shops, a supermarket and plenty of houses.

Yvonne says: “I lived in Harwood from the 30s until I moved in 1973 and during that time I saw Harwood change from a village to the built-up area it is today.

“Yes, it was a village and a quiet and pretty one.

“There was only one main road. Starting at Bradshaw Brow, Lea Gate and at Tottington Road the village of Harwood began with Longsight and Hardy Mill right up to the Nab Gate.

“Local people used to refer to parts of Hardy Mill Road as Factory Brow as many years ago a factory was sited there. I believe it burned down in 1917, but what it produced is a mystery.

“My family farmed for many years and Davenport Fold was the family home. There were at least 10 working farms in the area. “I lived in Ruins Lane and at that time it was just that — a lane, with no houses until the very bottom end of the small road.

“Our house bore the name Higher Pitfield and had the date 1787 inscribed above the door.

“The close by Hawthorne Bank was a pretty row of cottages with a small wooden bungalow nestled at the end. There were a few more cottages down the path that led to the leafy idyll we called The Folly and the area around our home resembled a hamlet flanked by fields either side of the lane.

“The Folly was a riot of Hawthorne trees, blackberries and wild flowers. The brook ran across the lane and under a bridge and we spent many fun-filled days exploring this place that sung with magic for us children — and also held its attraction for courting couples to visit.

“Everywhere we looked we saw wildlife, trees, fields and flowers. Water voles swam in the brook and the kingfishers flashed their jewel-like blue wings. I even came across a mother partridge leading her brood one day.

“From our back door we could see clearly across to the Oaks Station. There was nothing to block the view, and in those days the 10.50am train from London to Edinburgh could be seen steaming through the country.

“Down our lane there were two street lamps spreading their meagre glow, one half way and one next to the cottages. When the bulb went a lone figure could be seen, riding a bike, dressed in a wide-brimmed trilby and coming to our rescue.

“Because of his attire the kids named him the Durango Kid — a popular cowboy hero.

“He would take the old bulb out to exchange with the one handily stored in his overcoat pocket and the job was done. Turton Council spared no expense in those days!

“Brookfold Lane was opposite Ruins Lane and when my grandfather retired from the “big farm” he started a small-holding and piggery where St Brendan’s now is.

“Hopwood Delph, the small non-working of the two quarries, was another of our playgrounds. We would spend our summers scrambling about there and come autumn we’d collect ripe blackberries.

“At the bottom of Brookfold was a shop owned by the Martins where the quarry workers would send down the office boy with orders for pies and cakes for the hungry workers. That little family-run shop sold the best pies you’d ever tasted.

“Other shops in the village included Brooks, where the produce ranged from potatoes to iron nails. Broughs ran the post office and next door, a greengrocer’s.

“Meat was supplied by Atkinson’s butchers and the Leach’s shop sold all manner of handy goods.

“However the Harrods of Harwood was Jimmy Haslam’s. The smell of fresh coffee and baking when you entered the establishment was heaven.

“Life was certainly slower in those days, but good. My son, who was born in our cottage in Harwood, could play out safely with his friends without worrying about traffic.

“We had two exciting events in the Harwood calendar. The first one was the sheepdog trials and agricultural show but the jewel in the year was the Holcombe Hunt Races held in the fields next to the Nab Gate pub.

“This was the special event with hundreds of spectators either walking or on the many extra double decker buses that were laid on for such an important occasion. We had never seen so many people making their way through the village.

“There was Prince Monalulu, a larger than life feather-topped character on the racecourse predicting the winner, surrounded by sweet stalls and ice cream vans. To us this was the big time.

“Being a small village there were many different characters. The man who came round selling pigs’ trotters (a Lancashire delicacy) was known as Pigs’ Foot Willy. A chap who worked at Lions Oil in Bolton was christened Oily Joe and fortunately people took these names in good humour.

“There was Little Bert and two brother who came down from their farm high up on the hill known as the Bucket Yeads.

“These nicknames have stuck even if the faces who they belonged to become hazy in my memory.

“I remember the scent of hay when the fields were cut, the fragrance of the creamy white May blossom down the lane. I remember the echo of children laughing as we breathlessly tried to see who could jump over the rushing brook.

“I remember Longsight School, the winter concerts always starring a buxom woman singing Velia, jumble sales and the smell of baking.

“These were all memories of growing up in a small part of a big world before it all changed.”