Colour botanical tattoo of a leafy branch with orange berries wrapping around a forearm, below a plaid shirt sleeve.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Berry branch sprig on a forearm

Botanical · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A slim branch with long green leaves and clusters of orange-red berries curves across the outer forearm, extending from the elbow area towards the wrist. The leaves are outlined and filled with green tones, with some shading along their edges, while the berries use warm orange and red. The plain pale background keeps the focus on the tattoo, with a dark plaid sleeve at the right of the frame.

Botanical Forearm Branch Leaves Berry Sprig Plant

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The pot had to come off the hob by four, or the sugar caught and the berries turned bitter as ink, and Mrs Pruett would never let me forget it. Eight hours of rolling in the Dogger had left the galley smelling of scorched tin and wet wool, until Danny Cole came down the companionway with a branch in his fist as if he'd robbed a hedge.

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He'd cut it on the dunes above Winterton, where the sea buckthorn grows low and wind-bent and nobody else wants it. Thorns down the stem, leaves long and narrow as filleting knives, and along the length of it the berries, orange as a lamp seen through a sail. I had never cooked with the stuff. Mrs Pruett had, on her mother's farm, and she tipped the sprig into the sink as though it might bite her, then picked off every berry with a hairpin while the rest of us argued over the last tin of peaches.

We boiled the fruit down with sugar we had no business having, and the steam fogged the porthole until the grey sea was only a suggestion. The skipper came down at half three, took one spoon from the ladle, and said nothing for so long I thought we had lost the lot. Then he asked for a second spoon. That was the whole review, and it remains the best thing I have ever been told by a man in a wet oilskin.

We filled eleven jars and labelled them in pencil with the name of the dune and the date. When the pilot boat came alongside off Lowestoft, I wrapped the last one in a tea towel and handed it down, and Danny tucked it inside his jacket as though it might spill on the steps. Ashore it would be somebody's breakfast. Out there it was the only thing on the boat that tasted of land.