To illustrate the friendliness of the people of the British Isles, I always refer to the night we arrived in Darlington, Yorkshire.
We'd played around too long everywhere we went that day, and the task of making sure of rooms just didn't seem important until, oops! too late.
We called all the hotels, guesthouses, inns and B&B's in town. Everything was full except a disgusting flophouse kind of place we stopped at by mistake. By ten o'clock we were tired, getting rather frantic and running out of gas.
As a last resort before driving on down the highway, when I went to pay for the gas I asked the cashier if she knew of any place that might have space.
She didn't but she pulled out the phone book, asked how many were in our party and started calling around. She kept up a running commentary about the town and our trip as she called people she knew who ran B&Bs, then called all the hotels they reccomended. She finally found us a room at Blackwell Grange. It was not quite what we'd anticipated but after all her effort how could we turn it down?