Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Matching mountain and coordinates forearm tattoos
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
Three forearms show near-identical tattoos of a simple black outline mountain range with two lines of small coordinate text beneath. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the designs sit at the same height on each arm. The photo is a close, evenly lit composition against a grey top and pale skin.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Mind the step, it's the loose slate by the drain. Pull that stool up to the stove and I'll tell you how three surveyors came to share one mountain, though none of them ever stood on its top. It was the winter of the big snow, the year the Ordnance men left their theodolite in a Dumfries pub and never went back for it.
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Their names were Ada Renwick, her brother Tam, and a lad from Lerwick called Sandy Ure who could sketch a ridge faster than most could say it. They pencilled their marks on a whiteboard of cloud and wrote the numbers down twice, once in pencil and once in ink, so that if one copy blew away the other would hold. Fifty-five degrees, six minutes, forty seconds north. They argued all night over the last figure, whether it was fifty-eight or fifty-nine, and by dawn they had given up on the peak and simply agreed the mountain was wherever the numbers said it was.
Ada went south with the pencil copy. Tam took the ink to Canada on a boat that sank twice before it arrived. Sandy kept the sketch, and every time someone asked him where he'd been, he drew those three jagged teeth on the back of a beer mat and turned it over so they could read the coordinates for themselves.
Years later the three of them met in a Leith bar on a night like this one, rain on the glass, and they found they had each been carrying the same map the whole time. Ada laughed till she coughed. Nobody ever climbed it. They never needed to. Pour the next one, love, and mind the slate.
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