Close-up of a black serif script tattoo reading We're All Mad Here, running diagonally along the inner upper arm of a woman in a maroon top.

We're All Mad Here quote on upper arm

Lettering · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows the inner upper arm of a woman with her head and face out of frame, wearing a maroon sleeveless top. The tattoo is the phrase We're All Mad Here in a clean, thin-lined serif typeface, set on a slight diagonal running from the elbow side toward the shoulder. The ink is black on a neutral, lightly lit background with soft focus on the fabric and hair at the edge of the frame.

Lettering Fine line Upper arm Quote Text Phrase Serif

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You have been keeping the hut at Carrick Gap for eleven days when the fog comes down so thick you lose the cairn from the doorstep. The radio went silent when the valley post shut for winter, and the only company left is the ledger on the table, where the last keeper wrote the weather in a neat, slanting hand and stopped in October without giving a reason.

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On the twelfth evening a man walks out of the white with no coat and a heel of bread under one arm. He says his name is Tobin and that he is a surveyor. He also says the road down runs on the left of the stream, though he has been insisting for an hour that the stream runs uphill. You put the kettle on. He admires the chipped enamel mugs, counts the rafters aloud, and asks whether the sheep in the far field have been told about the storm. There are no sheep, and you say so. He smiles as if you have made a small joke and says, "Oh, we're all mad here, you'll find," then falls asleep sitting upright with the bread still in his lap.

At first light the door is open and his boot prints lead out to the edge of the scree, where they stop as though the ground had been taken away. Below, the fog has lifted off the valley. The road is exactly where he said it would be, on the left of the stream, and nothing in the view looks mad at all.

You open the ledger to find his name. It isn't there. On the last clean page, in the same slanting hand, someone has written the date you arrived and underlined it twice, as if they had been expecting you.