Small black and grey tattoo of two mountain peaks with dotted shading on the side of a foot near the ankle, in a fine line style.

Two mountain peaks on a foot

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A photograph of a small tattoo of two mountain peaks on the outer side of a foot, close to the ankle. The taller peak is drawn with a fine dark outline and softly stippled grey shading, and the smaller peak to its right is outlined with lighter shading. The tattoo sits in the centre of the frame against plain skin and a pale grey floor.

Fine line Dotwork Ankle Mountain Peak

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The chart in the harbour office said Carn Mór and Carn Bheag, but nobody on Holm Ardal had used those names since my grandmother's time. We called them the Old Man and the Sister. The Old Man leaned a little over the harbour as if he were listening for the boats, and the Sister stood off to the east with her shoulder turned, as though she had heard all of it before and did not care to hear it again.

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The surveyor came over on the Tuesday boat with a brass theodolite wrapped in oilcloth and a notebook he would not let anyone else touch. Mr Tennant wanted the height of the Old Man fixed for the Board, and he hired me at a shilling a day to carry the tripod and keep the mist off the lens with my sleeve. We climbed in grey weather, the path a pale thread through the heather, and by noon the cloud had sat down on us so thickly that I could not see my own boots.

At the cairn Mr Tennant levelled the instrument, sighted, and wrote down a figure that made him frown. "Eleven hundred and forty," he said. "The Board will want it exact." My grandmother had written eleven hundred and thirty-seven in the back of the family Bible. I said so. He told me a Bible was not a survey. I said no, but she had climbed that hill more times than his instrument had been out of its box. He looked at the fog for a long moment, then wrote 1,137 and underlined it twice.

On the way down the cloud tore open for a minute, and there below us was the Sister in full sun, her ridges sharp as pencil strokes, and the Old Man beside her gone soft and blue like a smudge on paper. I thought of the pale dots my grandmother had pricked into the shadows of her chart, dots that drifted from light into dark. Mr Tennant was already packing. I kept that minute of sunshine to myself, the way you keep a coin in your shoe.