Black and grey dotwork tattoo of a camping scene inside a circle on the inner forearm, with a crescent moon, mountains, pine trees, a tent and a campfire.

Camping scene in a circle on a forearm

Dotwork · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A circular tattoo shows a night camping scene with a crescent moon and small stars above layered mountains, a row of pine trees, a tent on the left and a campfire at the bottom. The background sky and the edges of the circle are built from fine stippled dots that fade toward the centre, while the trees and fire use solid line and shading. The piece is in black and grey and is centred on the forearm against a plain skin tone and dark fabric.

Dotwork Forearm Mountain Moon Star Pine tree Tent Campfire Camping Forest Night sky

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Now sit still, the lot of you, and mind the tabby, she's listening too. Sixty summers back, Ada Penrose's brother Frank pitched a canvas tent at the bottom of our garden, between the runner beans and the old brick wall, because he said a man could not sleep under a ceiling when there were stars to be counted.

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He had borrowed the tent from a cousin who'd walked the Cheviots, and he laid his fire of split ash with two bits of driftwood his mother never found out about. The garden was no wood, mind you, but at night, with the hedge gone black and the shed standing like a dark mountain, it was near enough. Frank swore the pines stood up along the back fence whenever nobody was looking, and Ada, who was nine and believed everything, went to bed with her boots on in case they walked off.

On the third night the fire burned down to a red eye and Frank did not come in from the lane. Ada took the torch from the scullery and went down past the rhubarb, and found the tent empty, the flap tied back, and a thin moon hooked on the wire of the gate. She sat by the cold ashes until the sky greyed, counting the stars the way he'd taught her, and she reached two hundred and eleven before his whistle came from the far side of the wall, carrying a paper parcel of sausages and a box of matches he'd gone all the way to the village for.

And that's why, every midsummer, Ada's grandchildren light a fire at the bottom of this garden, though the tent went to rags long ago. Hand me that stick, will you, and mind your fingers on the coals.