Small loose-line mountain ridge tattoo in dark ink on an ankle, with a suede sandal strap and woven bracelets beside it.

Mountain ridge sketch on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A small, sketchy tattoo of a mountain ridge with jagged peaks sits on the side of an ankle. The linework is loose and broken, with some areas of dark ink and a faint blue-grey tint, and the design is shown against bare skin. The bare foot rests against a wooden deck, with a suede sandal strap and woven bracelets in the frame.

Fine line Ankle Mountain Peak Sketch Line

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mum called the view from the ninth floor the telly, because the window was the biggest thing in the flat and it had the hills in it. Every morning before the lift broke down again I'd stand with my toast and trace the ridge on the glass with one finger, the way you'd follow a sentence you hadn't finished reading. On a clear day you could count seven peaks from Harrow Close, though Dev from fourteen swore there were nine.

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I started drawing them on the back of the council letters, because paper was dear and the letters always came with a blank side. Biro first, then a stub of pencil I kept behind my ear. The ridge never came out whole. My line broke wherever my hand lifted, when the bus went past under the window, when Nan rang to ask if I'd eaten. I stopped trying to fix the gaps and let them stand. The hills looked more like hills that way, as if they were still deciding what shape to be.

The summer I was sixteen, Marisol got a job on the coach to Keswick and asked me to keep her sketchbook safe. Inside were pages of the same ridge, scratched in and rubbed out, and at the back a note: Go and check if they're really there. I didn't go. I left the book on the windowsill, where the grime caught the dusk and made the lines look blue-grey.

Last week the lift worked, so I took the book up to the roof. Nine peaks, Dev was right. I drew them standing up, badly, and the wind snatched a page over the railing. It floated down past the balconies, and I watched it until it snagged on the car park fence, still holding a jagged edge of the hills in pencil.