Mounting again, the road turns to the left and goes straight ahead on what is evidently a portion of a Roman “street,” giving on the left a view of the “Marsh” towards Mablethorpe, with its grey shimmering line which denotes “the bounding main,” and on the right a still more distant prospect over the flat “fen” lands in the direction of Boston, whose columnar tower rises far up into the sky. The blue haze of the marsh, the purple distance over the fens, with, in the autumn, the long, drifting lines of grey smoke from the burning “quitch,” or “twitch” as they usually call it here, make a delightful impression; and then if we turn fenwards we drop into the leafy hollow of _Skendleby_ village, where once the Conqueror’s friend, Gilbert de Gaunt, resided, and to which William of Waynfleet, the famous Bishop of Winchester, was presented as vicar by the convent of Bardney in 1430. It is a pretty village with its church and manor-house, and thatched, white-washed cottages bright with flowers, and its well-stocked farm. A tall windmill crowns the next height; this is Grebby Mill, and it is interesting to find that there has been a windmill there for 600 years. For _Grebby_ is old enough to be mentioned in Domesday Book, and in 1317 we have mention of a windmill there belonging to Robert de Willoughby and Margaret his wife. [Sidenote: THE FLOODED FEN] From the windmill one looks down to the old brick tower of _Scremby_ church, which is the last building on the edge of the slope from which the endless levels of the fen begin and run south till they reach Crowland and Peterborough. From whence the great cathedral, with its splendid west front, looked out in the disastrous August of 1912 over miles and miles of corn-land where the tall sheaves stood up out of a vast expanse of water, the result of the abnormal rains and the burst dyke which made Whittlesea Mere once more resume its ancient appearance. Below Scremby the road runs to the left to _Candlesby_, and so rejoins that starting-place of so many byways—_Gunby_. There was a church at Scremby in Norman times; at the dissolution the manor came to the all-acquiring Duke of Suffolk. Now-a-days the handbook dismisses it as “of no special interest,” but eighty-five years ago it was thought worth while to mention that “at the west end of the nave is a neat and commodious singing-gallery.” Those who wish to see the beauties of the country must leave the high ridge every here and there and make a round into the little villages which lie at the foot of the Wolds, mostly on the western slopes where they escape the strong sea winds.