The Free Fishers by John Buchan

Nanty wandered down a road which ran from the main highway to the little fenland boroughs of the north. He had read the names on the first milestone out of Fenny Horton -- Ely, Downham, King's Lynn; that was the road Bob and Jock had travelled the night before, and now by the grace of God they should have reached their journey's end. He had the day before him with only one duty to fulfil, and he deliberately sauntered to quiet his nerves.

He remembered that it was the last day of April. Spring was almost past, and in this soft southern land summer had already begun. The reedy watercourses were ablaze with marsh marigolds, the wayside banks were white with marguerites, the fat pastures between the dykes were gay with daisies and buttercups -- "enamelled" was the word that rose to his mind -- he remembered it from Dunbar and the old Makars. At the turn of the road the sails of a huge old windmill were slowly turning, and he heard the chack-chack of the pump. Beyond like a pale green cloud lay what must be the woods of Landbeach, and somewhere on the left, where the tall trees declined to sallows and brushwood, must be the ominous inn. Larks were singing high up in the blue, and wailing lapwings skimmed the fallows. There were two hawks in the air, and the russet gleam as they turned told him that they were kites. Only once before had he seen a kite, and the sight brought back to him the bird-nesting of his childhood.