In most places, a graveyard might be a strange place to relax, but in Whitby, the graveyard of St. Mary's church on the east cliff offered a splendid view over the town and sea, and in this sunny, warm weather, it was almost impossible to resist. There was a pleasant breathe here too, rolling in from the moors, that did not quite reach the town below. 

She didn't relax entirely. Her hands were busy knitting one of the typical blue guernseys that the fishermen wore. Every town had its own pattern - it allowed for easier identification of those unfortunate men who washed ashore miles from home. Anne had learned the Whitby pattern very early on in her childhood, and now she only needed to look down at her work occasionally. She could enjoy the sun, and lovely view of the light reflected on the water below, and daydreams of better days in bygone times and better days in the future.