Black fine line script tattoo reading Wanderlust with an arrow passing through the word, on the inner wrist against a green fern background.

Wanderlust script with arrow on the wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black script tattoo reading Wanderlust, with the letters looping into one another and a small arrow piercing the lower left of the word and extending to the right. The linework is fine and even, in solid black ink with no shading or colour. The tattoo sits centrally on the inner wrist and forearm, set against blurred green foliage in a square white-bordered photograph.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Wanderlust Arrow Script

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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

Dear Ada, forgive the blotches, the ink in Mr Pendry's inkwell has gone thick with damp and the coach leaves within the hour. You asked what the word was that the Swan's landlord had painted over his door in curling letters, with a little arrow shot through the bottom of it. I told you it was foreign. It is not foreign. It is the ache a man gets when every hedge he passes looks like one he has already walked.

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I set out from Harrowgate on the first grey Monday of March with a copy of Mr Hollis's map that had the coastline wrong, and your father's spare woollen socks rolled into my satchel. For nine days the road ran north with me on it. I slept in a barn near Thirsk, in a loft above a family of goats who did not care what I was, and I learnt that the arrow on the sign is not a pointer at all. The landlord's grandmother told me it points the way a thing is going, not the way it has been.

At Scarborough I bought a tin whistle from a boy who asked a shilling and took sixpence. I have not learnt to play it. I carry it anyway, the way you carry a stone out of a field you are leaving. Past the cliffs the road turned inland, and I stood in the wind and found I could not remember which way home lay, only that the arrow was pointing east, toward the market town where you keep the ledgers.

So I am turning the coach round. Tell Father the map was wrong about the coast, and tell him the sheep at Thirsk are the finest I have seen. I will be at the gate by Thursday with the whistle still unplayed in my coat. Keep the lamp lit in the window.