I'm married to a Brit, so over the years we've been there a number of times. I remember most fondly one trip where I wanted to drink beer at the Wensleydale Heifer to commemorate my love of James Harriot's wonderful books. We went off to Yorkshire Dales where I understood but about 15% of the dialect.
Beers + Language Confusion = snot ripping, side gripping laughter. I was carrying on a conversation with a local about stilts. He was carrying on a conversation with me about stoats and we never did make sense of a word that was exchanged.
In a small pub way out country I hopped up on the bar stool, ordered a pint of best bitter...the publican was sure I meant a half pint. I insisted I meant a pint. He raised his brows detectably, then pulled me a pint. When that was finished, I ordered another. His brows raised slightly more detectably. I finished my second lovely pint, hopped off my bar stool and fell flat on my back. I got up, dusted myself off, gave him a sheepish grin and headed back to my hotel.