Black and grey blackwork and dotwork tattoo of mountains and pine trees inside a circle on an upper arm, with a partial second tattoo of the same design on the left.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Mountain and pine tree circle on upper arm

Blackwork · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A circular design shows a mountain range with a stippled dotwork sky above and solid black pine tree silhouettes along the bottom, with drips at the base of the trees. The linework is bold and the trees are filled with solid black ink, while the sky uses fine dots that fade toward the top of the circle. A second, larger partial copy of the mountain and tree design sits to the left, and the skin is shown in soft natural light.

Blackwork Dotwork Upper arm Mountain Pine tree Forest Landscape Circle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The first tray of loaves was already out when Ines noticed the window had gone from black to the colour of wet slate. She set the peel down against the rack and wiped her hands on the apron that still smelled of last night's rye. Outside, the road through Glenarrach ran uphill past the church and then gave up, and beyond it the hills stood as they always stood, dark against the grey, their ridges sharpened by the cold.

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Her father had kept the bakery for thirty-one years before his hands gave out. He used to say you could tell the hour from the trees rather than the clock: the pines on Carn Dubh turned from ink to pewter a full ten minutes before the sky did anything at all. She had thought he was talking nonsense until the winter she stayed behind to mind the ovens alone, and found he was right about most things.

This morning the lorry from the mill was late and the flour was short. She had two sacks left and a funeral tea at nine for the Mackays, forty scones and a tray of shortbread that had to be cut before the light. She worked the dough by hand, folding and turning, and when she looked up again the ridge had lifted from the sky the way a page lifts from a book. Dew had silvered the rooftops. The pines stood in a long dark line along the bottom of the glass.

She pressed the last scone out with the rim of a tin, then used her thumb to draw a ring in the spilled flour on the table, a circle with a small peaked range inside it and a fringe of tree-tops along the base. She looked at it for a moment, then swept it away with the side of her hand. Let the van come. The hills had kept their own time for far longer than the bakery had.