I HAD heard that Yorkshire folk were friendly; but surely not this friendly? Mrs Dooley was showing me her lovely white lace bloomers in full view of everyone else in the street.

Yes, you did read that right; bloomers. Her companion, the uppercrust Mrs Hill, looked shocked and embarrassed while Mrs Dooley, mother of 12 and with another on the way, continued to proudly flash her hand-me-down Parisian underwear.

Passers-by did not bat an eyelid. But this is Saltaire, the Unesco World Heritage Site, now part of Bradford, where history comes alive with the entertaining Salt Walks offered by Mrs Dooley, aka Maria Glott. This ‘model’ village was built between 1851-72 by textile magnate Sir Titus Salt for his mill workers. It was intended to be a million miles away from the squalid slums of the city where people were lucky to live much beyond 21.

Mrs Dooley was trying to show us an altogether more altruistic side to the master by leading us to the almhouses where headstone-like tablets beside some of the doors show the names of the occupants. On some there are as many as eight names in a year. It seems that you only came in to these almshouses if you were on your way out.

Though Titus built a hospital for his workers injured in the mill, anyone who could no longer work for him had to leave their home. He also built a magnificent park by the River Aire, though workers simply did not have the time to enjoy it.

The man who appeared to offer people a better way of life with his ‘idealistic’ village was to never let them forget who built it either. The Italianate palace-style mill – the biggest building in the world in its time – forms a T shape.

Every which way you turn in Saltaire you can see the initials TS entwined in stone, plaster work or railings. Roads were named after members of his family, including in-laws and grandchildren.

Saltaire’s 820 houses are now privately owned, having been sold off in 1930. Magnificent Salts Mill is a tourist magnet, mostly because of its 1853 Gallery featuring one of the world’s largest collections of Bradford-boy David Hockney’s work.

There are quirky shops and cafes and visitors are free to wander around the cobbled village streets by themselves. But the character walks offer such an enlightening view of the lifestyles of Saltaire’s previous inhabitants and the rather egotistical business brain of Titus that to go without Mrs Dooley and co’s company would be like, well, going to Bradford and not having a curry.

This we did, of course, though the choice of restaurants is mind-boggling. We chose the Markaz Restaurant and Shisha Lounge in Centenary Square. Our young daughter Sophie had been fascinated by the curly hookah pipes that she could see people smoking in an opulent tent outside. We by-passed the chance to inhale a fruit-flavoured infusion in favour of what turned out to be the best curry we have ever eaten, served up with a large portion of the famed Yorkshire friendliness.

The real highlight of Sophie’s stay was undoubtedly the National Media Museum and the IMAX theatre. In the museum she learned how TV programmes are made, operating cameras and experimenting with different backdrops. We could have immersed ourselves in hours of classics such as Fawlty Towers in TV Heaven, all for free, but Sophie wanted to have a go at reading the news.

Though children are in their element here, the educational message is subtly pushed home, not least because Bradford is now the world’s first Unesco ‘City of Film’.

It was slightly surreal to go from the very latest in film technology to a scene which could have come straight out of Dickens – and all within a few miles.

We wandered up the Main Street of Haworth taking care on the cobbles and stone setts, designed to give horses a better grip. The tourist blurb had told me that the former wool village had retained much of its character from when its most famous residents, the Brontës, lived here.

However, I was a little unprepared for the rather full-on blast of Brontë sentiment in the name of tourism. At the top of the hill we found the Brontë Parsonage Museum, where the world’s most famous literary family lived from 1820-61.

Charlotte’s novel Jane Eyre, Emily’s Wuthering Heights and Anne’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall were all written in this house.

The Brontë Society, which has restored the Parsonage, has sourced all manner of the Brontë’s possessions, from letters and manuscripts to clothes and furniture, all of which were scattered, to give visitors a wonderful insight into the family’s life. Outside, looking past the hordes of sightseers, I was reminded of an old-fashioned Christmas card scene, with cottages with mullioned windows and street lanterns. So it is somewhat hard to fathom that Haworth is twinned with the village at Macchu Picchu in Peru.

Apart from a few of the touristy shops selling ethnic knitted garments and crafts, the only obvious connection seems to be that they are both built on a bit of a slope – albeit Macchu Picchu is at least 10 times higher – and around the tourist and textile industries. The twinning is actually promoting Fairtrade goods and helps children with learning disabilities in Peru.

Undoubtedly, it is Haworth’s past that is most compelling. In the mid-19th century this was one of the unhealthiest places in Britain with the street running with raw sewage. Heaps of night soil and slaughterhouse waste were also left to decompose and wash down the hill. The town’s water was also contaminated with deadly seepage from the overcrowded graveyard in front of the Parsonage. No surprise, perhaps, that a report from 1850 shows the average age at death was 25.

At the bottom of the hill was The Old Registry guest house, where we were staying, with four poster beds and rooms with such sweet names such as Lavender, Blue Heaven and Secret Garden. One can’t help but wonder what the residents of 150 years ago would make of their village today. One thing I am sure of though, is that they would find the famed Yorkshire welcome hasn’t changed one bit.