Black tribal tattoo of spirals and chevron bands running from the thigh down the calf of a person's leg.

Tribal spiral tattoo down a leg

Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A bold black tribal design with spiral motifs and bands of fine chevron hatching runs from the upper thigh over the knee and down the calf. The linework is solid black with dense textured infill, and the design curves along the leg's natural shape. The image is shot in full colour against a yellow wall with white painted curves, and the ink appears black and grey on the skin.

Thigh Calf Spiral Tribal pattern Chevron Leg

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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

Sit down by the water butt, love, and mind the bindweed, it has ideas above its station. Now. You want to know why the old wall at Wrenfield House curls like that. Everyone says the mason was drunk. He wasn't drunk. He was patient, which is worse.

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The garden then belonged to a widow called Mrs Aldous Penhale, who had exactly one fern. It came up through a cracked step the spring her husband went to sea, and it unrolled a frond each week, every one wound tighter than the last, like a spring coiled inside a clock. She said it was counting. Counting what, I asked her, and she said the days until somebody came home, and she wouldn't say more than that.

The gardener's boy, Tobias Quill, took a cutting in the autumn to sell at the market in Hallam. He carried it down the lane wrapped in wet newspaper, and by the time he reached the bridge every curl had loosened and gone flat, so he tipped it into the river and went home ashamed. When he got back, the step was green again, and the fern had three new spirals on it, as if it had grown them out of spite.

Mrs Penhale never said a word about it. She swept the leaves, put the kettle on, and kept the gate on the latch. Her husband came up the lane the following March, thinner and sunburnt, carrying nothing but a coil of rope. He stopped at the gate and looked at the wall, and then he laughed, because the whole length of it had spiralled round like a sleeve pushed up an arm, and the fern had counted every single day. That's the story. Drink your tea before it goes cold.