On Waking in a Dudley Travelodge

Not London’s fog, not Brighton’s brine,
Just Dudley’s grey, 6 a.m. line:
The Travelodge sighs, a beige-hued shell
Where weary travellers learn to dwell.

No castle spire, no canal’s gleam,
Just lino cold beneath my dream—
The alarm’s false birdsong, sharp and thin,
Tugs me from dreams of home and kin.

The duvet’s weight, a manufactured hug,
Smells faintly of stale tea and rug.
The pillow’s lump, a stubborn hill,
Claims sovereignty 'neath weary will.
I trace the crack where ceiling meets wall—
A spider’s thread, a silver thrall—
While distant, muffled, through the pane,
A Dudley train begins its strain
Towards Snow Hill, or maybe Birmingham New Street,
Where real life pulses, strong and sweet.

The kettle’s whisper, thin and bright,
Promises liquid, warm and white—
Though first sip tastes of plastic, contrived,
It’s my brew,kept alive.
No fancy press, no artisan grind,
Just granules coarse, the blackest kind
That Travelodge buys by the sackful,
To wake the weary, wake the doubtful.

I pull the curtain, just a slit:
The car park gleams, dampBritain lit
By sodium’s harsh, unblinking eye—
A Mondeo sighs, a van goes by.
No palm trees sway, no ocean’s roar,
Just Black Country sky, streaked grey before
The sun, a reluctant, copper coin,
Attempts to join the morning’s coin.

This room holds no remembered grace,
No loved-one’s scent, no familiar face—
Just functional neutral, blandly dressed,
A testament to transient rest.
Yet in this brief, borrowed, beige embrace,
I find a strange, unlooked-for space:
To simply be, without pretence,
No performance, no dense suspense.
Just me, the duvet, and the hum
Of Dudley waking, slowly, glum—
Yet somehow, in its plain, unadorned way,
Holding the promise of another day.

So here’s to Travelodge, Dudley-style:
Not luxury, but honest mile.
A port in passing storm or rain,
Where even the most ordinary plain
Can hold a moment, sharply defined—
Awake, and oddly, strangely, kind.
(And if the tea’s weak? Well, that’s just Britain.)