The Haunting Journey to Travellers Rest

Roaring down the roads, speed taking hold,
Balancing on two wheels, man and machine bold.
In the black night, only the lights guide my way,
Bare eyes weary, heavy and searching for rest, I say.

A house atop a hill comes into view,
A sigh of relief, a calmness ensues.
Rest for my tired eyes, tomorrow I’ll ride,
As I close them, the house reveals to be an inn, what a stride.

Secure on my machine, ready for more miles,
I gaze upon the inn with hopeful smiles.
A shadow catches my gaze, by the window it peeks,
But as I approach, it disappears, the old sign reads “Travellers Rest” as I seek.

A knock on the old brass door handle I make,
Again and again, but no one seems to wake.
A man’s voice answers, telling me to come in,
Finally, a room to sleep, to let my tired eyes begin.

My heavy eyes are drawn to a doorway in my dream,
But I shake my head, realizing it’s not what it seems.
No one is there, just an empty space,
Room number 29 is where I find solace.

Climbing the stairs, wiping my weary eyes,
The old man says his wife will set up the bed, no surprise.
Down the passage, a warm fire’s glow,
Straight ahead, my room awaits, a comforting show.

A large bed fit for a king, I feel like royalty,
But weirdly, the thought of a king repeats inside me.
Supper at 7, the man reminds me again,
As I dream of drifting into a peaceful sleep, amen.

In a light doze, the sound of music fills the air,
Through the gap under the door, shadows there.
People passing, the clock tick-tocks above the fire,
Sleep beckons, luring me deeper into rest’s mire.

The chimes of seven awaken me from my doze,
But wait, my watch reads eight, the clock’s pace slowed.
Shadows keep passing, no voices to be heard,
I repeat that there are no sounds, no words.

I dream and long for sleep, for I have a ride to take,
But the clock and shadows continue to play their own wake.
The old man knocks and reminds me of breakfast at 7:30,
Repeating himself, his voice ringing in my ears so early.

I rise, wash up, and leave the room behind,
Catching a glimpse of something, but it’s all in my mind.
Descending the stairs, wiping my bare eyes,
I’m met with a shocking sight, a derelict’s demise.

The once grand inn reduced to a broken shell,
I turn to look at the stairs, darkness and ruin dwell.
Disbelief fills me, it’s all too much to bear,
A voice from the street confirms the tragedy, fire claimed it, all dead and unfair.

“Are you okay, sir?” the concerned voice inquires,
My twin brother’s place, a haunted past that never expires.
I wipe my eyes, trying to comprehend the surreal,
Mounting my bike, I ride away with the thunder’s appeal.

The thundering sound of the road, my machine and I,
As one we go, balanced and ready to fly,
Repeating the journey, with a new perspective in sight,
Leaving behind the mysteries and nightmares of the night.

Paul Baldry (LongJohn)

Intro
I’ve always found peace on two wheels — the rhythm of the road, the hum of the engine, the solitude between towns. Over the years, I’ve stayed in some strange places: quiet inns, forgotten guesthouses, rooms that felt older than time. One such memory sparked this poem long ago. It’s a ride into mystery, a nod to the eerie charm of places that linger in the mind long after you’ve left.