ONE beautiful summer in the mid 80s, my wife and I and our two teenage sons were enjoying a holiday on the lovely Torbay.

We were strolling along the coastal path and sat down on the grass for a rest and to enjoy the panoramic view across the bay. A couple who had followed us stopped for a chat. "Where are you from?" they asked in a strong Devon accent. "We're from Bolton, Lancashire," I answered. "Oh dear, it's all mills and cobbled streets up there isn't it? No lovely hills like these to climb is there?"

They were looking very sorry for us before I could tell them that we did have lovely hills to climb in Bolton. That we were in fact surrounded by beautiful hills and countryside to rival even Dartmoor and Exmoor.

Okay, so that was perhaps a slight exaggeration, but we do have beautiful countryside in abundance, all around us, some of the loveliest in the country.

I smiled at the ignorance as I watched the couple meandering along the path towards Paignton. They had obviously never been to Bolton, nor would they ever do so, because of the dark satanic image they had of our town.

In those days I wasn't writing letters to the Bolton Evening News, had I been doing so I would have suggested that perhaps we should change our name to Bolton-le-Moors.

Brian Derbyshire

Ribchester Grove

Bolton