Black and grey dotwork tattoo design of a mountain peak, zigzag ridges, a crescent moon and stars inside a diamond frame, with a small campfire and tent at the base.

Mountain camp under a crescent moon

Dotwork · Black and grey · Flash

A black ink drawing on white paper of a diamond-shaped camping scene. A peak with fine hatched linework rises above layered zigzag ridges, with a crescent moon and scattered stars in the dark sky, and a campfire with curling smoke and a tent sit on a dotted hill at the base. The shading is built from stippled dots that fade toward the edges, and the composition is centred and symmetrical.

Dotwork Geometric Mountain Crescent moon Star Campfire Smoke Tent Camping

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The oven wanted another twenty minutes, so I stood out by the bins with my hands in my armpits and watched the smoke from the flue lean over the roofs. It rose straight for a while, then gave up and drifted toward the ridge, the way Ruth's did on the mornings she wanted forgiving. Above Stannard Edge the moon was a thin white paring, and the stars the streetlamps usually drown were out in their full nonsense.

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Ruth left me the bakery, the starter in its brown crock, and a tent rolled up in the loft above the proving room. It smelled of cold peat and burnt sugar. She had slept in it once on top of the Edge, three nights in March, and came back down with frost in her eyebrows and a bag of wild garlic she swore made the bread better. She never said what she saw up there. Only that a fire high up makes you honest about how little you need.

I didn't believe her until the Tuesday the lorry was late and the bread was late and I had a heel of sourdough in my coat pocket and a head full of her silence. I walked up in the dark, switching the torch off every few steps to look at the moon. At the top I pitched the tent badly, lit a fire from the offcuts I'd carried in my rucksack, and sat with the loaf across my knees, tearing it while the smoke went straight up.

By the time the sky greyed over the valley, the oven at the bottom of the hill would be cold. Somebody would knock at seven and find the shutter down, and for once I had a good reason. I folded the tent before the sun cleared the ridge, left a loaf wrapped in a tea towel on the step, and walked home with woodsmoke in my jumper like a receipt.