Fine line black compass rose and handwritten script quote reading Not all those who wander are lost, tattooed on a foot.

Compass and quote tattoo on a foot

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A compass rose with a central star and cardinal points labelled N, E, S and W sits on the left of the foot. To the right, the script reads Not all those who wander are lost in a flowing handwritten style. The linework is thin and even in black ink on pale skin, with the design arranged diagonally across the foot.

Fine line Lettering Other Compass Compass rose Quote Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit by the oven, love, where the bricks still hold a bit of warmth, and mind the flour on the sill. I've only ever told this one to the ovens, so you'll have to be quiet for it. It starts at ten to four, the way all the good ones do, with Ada Penhallow scraping the last of the starter from the crock and saying, to nobody in particular, that her feet were itching again.

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Her brother Teddy had gone to sea at seventeen and sent postcards from ports that all looked the same to her: harbour wall, gulls, a church with a green roof. Above the flour bin their grandfather had chalked a compass rose on a slate, and under it, in a hand that leaned like a man walking into wind, the words not all those who wander are lost. Ada read it every morning while she shaped the loaves. She said it was the only sensible thing anybody in the family had ever written down.

In February, before the light, someone knocked on the glass. A man stood there with salt in his beard and a rolled chart under one arm. He asked, very politely, the way to Pennant Street, and Ada told him it was three streets back the way he'd come. He laughed and said he'd known that already, he only wanted to hear it from someone who'd stayed put. She gave him a heel of bread still hot from the tray. He broke it in half and held out the bigger piece, the way you'd offer a coin.

He didn't say his name. He didn't need to. He turned his palm up on the counter and there, scratched in the flour she'd dusted there by accident, was the little star of the rose. Ada put the kettle on, and the first grey came up over the harbour wall, and she wrote on the back of a postcard, wish you were here, then sat down and found she didn't mind at all that she already was.