Close-up of a fine line script tattoo reading "Not all those who wander are lost" across the outer thigh of a person in a denim shirt.

Script quote on a thigh

Fine line · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A thin black script quote runs across the outer thigh in two lines, with the words "Not all those who wander are lost". The linework is fine and even, with the lettering slightly slanted and curved. The ink is black on skin, and the warm, softly blurred background and denim shirt sit around the tattoo, which is the clear focus of the composition.

Fine line Lettering Thigh Quote Script Text

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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

The inspector at Hallow Bridge read every page of my grandfather's atlas before he would let it through, turning the vellum with a licked finger as though the coastlines might smudge. Behind him the river ran brown beneath the customs hut, and the sign on the far bank said only WELCOME in letters the rain had nearly taken.

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Grandfather drew maps for people who had no intention of going where the lines pointed. He used to say the good ones left a little white at the edges, room for a traveller to stop and decide. On the flyleaf he had written a line in pencil, copied from somewhere he never named: not all those who wander are lost. I had always taken it for a boast. Standing there with the book under my arm, it sounded more like instructions.

The inspector asked my purpose. I said I was returning the atlas to the people who had commissioned it, which was true, though the commission was signed in 1961 and the people were most likely dead. He frowned at the date, then at the empty box on the form where a destination should have gone, and for a long moment neither of us spoke. The queue behind me shuffled. A lorry horn sounded twice.

He stamped the entry line, slid the form back under the glass and tapped the blank box with his pen. 'Put anywhere,' he said. I wrote the name of the village where Grandfather was born, a place I had never seen, and walked out onto the bridge with the atlas open at a page of white, which was, I decided, the only honest map I had.