Close crop of a green pine treeline tattoo with grey shading on a man's thigh, with a dog resting its head between his leg and a woman's arm.

Pine treeline tattoo on a thigh

Thigh · Mixed · Photo

A dog rests its head against two people's legs in a close, informal crop, with a woman's arm on the left and a man's pink shorts on the right. The tattoo on the man's upper thigh shows a row of dark green pine trees of varying heights above soft grey shading that suggests a hillside or sky. The colour is mostly solid green with grey and black tones in the background, and the tattoo sits at the right side of the frame.

Thigh Pine tree Forest Mountain Dog Tattoo

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The count was wrong again. I stood on the broken wall of Keir Castle with the wind shoving my hair into my mouth and tallied the pines below, row by row, the way my grandfather taught me. Forty-one tall ones, nine half-grown, and the little one by the burn that nobody planted. Dougal, his old collie, leaned his whole weight against my shins, as if he disapproved of arithmetic too.

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Grandad Murdo had planted that treeline from seed in the years after the last laird sold up and the roof fell in on the great hall. The hill had gone bare and grey then, all scree and sheep bones. He used to say a castle is only a hill that has been argued with. Every April he walked up with a sack of cones and a trowel and set one more tree in the stones below the walls, until the ruin stopped looking like a skeleton and started looking like it was waiting for something to come up the glen.

After he died I kept the count in a notebook with a red cover. Then the sapling appeared, no taller than my knee, in a patch I had cleared myself and never sown. Dougal sniffed it and sneezed. I checked the notebook against the frost lines and found nothing that explained it, except that the trees seemed to be walking, a few yards each winter, towards the wall.

I didn't pull it up. I wound my scarf round its stem against the wind and went down before dark. The next morning it had grown a hand's width, Dougal had scraped a hollow beside it, and the two of them were looking down the glen as if they were expecting someone.