Listen to the track:
Wembury My Home ;)
I’ve stood by the Mewstone in horizontal rain,
Watched two cars meet in Church Road again,
One nudges the hedge and one won’t reverse,
Then along comes the bus and it all becomes worse.
And no one will ever move me from here,
Though the potholes grow deeper with every new year,
For this is my Eden, wherever I roam,
This is my Wembury and this is my home.
I’ve walked down the beach with towel, flask and chair,
And discovered that everyone else is already there,
I’ve watched hopeful drivers go round one more time,
Then crawl back uphill muttering, “bloody summertime.”
I’ve stood on the Point with the rain coming through,
Seen four different weathers in ten minutes or two,
Then somebody says, “It’ll brighten by three,”
Which is Wembury shorthand for “wait and we’ll see.”
And no one will ever move me from here,
Though the potholes grow deeper with every new year,
For this is my Eden, wherever I roam,
This is my Wembury and this is my home.
I’ve walked through the allotments when water was tight,
With IBC tanks being shuffled left and right,
There are hoses and dip tanks and barrels in rows,
And Pete knows where every last gallon goes.
I’ve read through the survey, one household, one say,
And wondered how fairness was measured that day,
While up and down Wembury opinions took flight,
With everyone certain that theirs must be right.
The Village Hall car park was handy at school,
Till someone reminded us, “That isn’t the rule,”
“We’ll lock up the gates!” : “Then we won’t come at all!”
Just another quiet week at the Wembury Hall.
I’ve heard St Werburgh’s bells rolling over the bay,
As they’ve done for the village for many a day,
Six voices above us, still ringing out clear,
While everything else seems to change every year.
We curse all the traffic that comes from outside,
For wrecking our roads with the way that they drive,
Then race through the narrows up Knighton Hill fast,
And prove that we’re really no better at last.
I’ve walked the old footpath behind Langdon View,
Where everyone knows it, though arguments brew,
Who clears it, who owns it, who’s meant to do what,
But somehow the walkers keep using the lot.
What have the National Trust done for us, then?
Apart from the cliff-top walks, time and again,
The Point and the Mewstone, the coast and the bay,
We moan about all of it, then walk that way.
And no one will ever move me from here,
Not the Parish Council with plans every year,
For this is my Eden, wherever I roam,
This is my Wembury and this is my home.
First thing in the morning when mist meets the sea,
And the Mewstone sits where it ought still to be,
For all of the moaning, the muddle and fuss,
There’s nowhere on earth that feels quite so much us.
For this is my Wembury, battered and bright,
Where something needs fixing most days by first light,
We grumble, we argue, then somehow get through,
And complain about Wembury, as Wembury folk do.