Infinity anchor with life and love script

The snow reached the Hollin Pass before the carters did, so I have spent two nights in the summit hut with the stove, the mule and old Parry, who says the pass has not shut this early since the year the bridge went. The wind keeps trying the door like it has business inside. I am writing this by the stove's light with my gloves off, which Parry says is a foolish thing to do at this height.

I found your father's marlinspike in my coat pocket this morning, the one you pressed on me at the quay and said was not a gift, only a loan. Each time the cold gets into my fingers I turn it over and read the mark you cut into the handle: a figure of eight lying on its side, a small anchor hung from the crossing point, and beneath the loops the words you would not let me say aloud in front of the men. Life on the left, love on the right. You said a sailor needs both written where he can see them when the rope runs out.

Tomorrow I take the mule down the far side toward the mill road. The track folds back on itself so often that I lose count of the turns, and Parry tells me it is the same road whichever way you walk it, which I suppose is the point of a loop.

Keep the lamp lit on the harbour wall. If the weather holds I will be at the mill by Thursday and at your door before the tide turns. Tell your mother the mule has forgiven me for the cabbages.

Yours, Tom