Thick coal smoke wraps around your neck, like bony fingers playfully teasing your skin. The cobblestone streets are alive with the sounds and smells of a new day. White topped tents are filled with grains and linens for purchase and men in black wool coats chat away, while the women ponder over that days choices.

The damp stone underneath your feet feels cool and the faint scent of Canna Lillies lingers in the air. Each step closer sends a shiver up your spine. You see it now, the kirkyard is just ahead. The faded sign reads: Memento Mori.