Some years ago when I had use of a small cottage at the end of a single-track lane near Stowmarket in Suffolk, I invited a London work colleague down for the weekend; a born and bred Londoner, his heavy hints about having never experienced beer in a low-beamed rural pub eventually prompted the invite. My local was scarcely a mile away from the cottage, and had not only low beams but a thatched roof, inglenook and a pedigree that dated back to around 1450. I should have sensed all was not well when we set off with the sun setting on the horizon, me in stout brogues and he in designer loafers with buckles and soles that looked about 1/8" thick. Still, we got there - and enjoyed an excellent evening.
At home time he asked if I had ordered a cab - and I had to explain how far a taxi would have to come, and it was only 20 minutes pleasant tanked-up walk. Within 50 yards he asked why the streetlights weren't working. He had never, ever, in his entire life been anywhere that was not artificially lit at night. There was hardly any moon, but the lane was quite visible to me as a slightly lighter black strip between the blackness of the hedges on either side - second nature, for I had spent my entire post-pubescent life walking at night on pitch-dark country roads. However, I should not have underestimated the fear and difficulty for someone for whom this was a novel experience. Fear of noises and of that which he couldn't see. He went into the hedges, and down into the drainage ditches several times. By the time we were home one of his Paul Smith loafers had lost the stitching of a sole. He was muddy and scratched and a silent pile of resentment. Only getting him back to London on the first morning train assuaged his hurt.
And years later, coming out of Walton on the Naze station, which sits on a small mound a short way from the main street, I passed a red-faced panting chipeater (as the locals term London day trippers) complaining to the ticket collector " ... I don't know why they didn't put the station nearer the town" she whined. I heard him reply with practised calm "They probably wanted it nearer the railway, madam".
So there's nothing new about the lovely story in the Mail of the Tripadvisor review by a serious townie recommending that not only should Lake Windermere be floodlit at night, but that hotels should be moved down to the lakeside ....