Colour botanical tattoo of a pink wild rose with red rose hips and green leaves on the upper arm, shown in a close-up and a wider view.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Wild rose branch on an upper arm

Botanical · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A wild rose branch with a pink five-petalled flower, yellow stamens, red rose hips and green leaves, with a thin stem and thorns. The shading is soft and painterly, with smooth blends in the petals and hips and highlights on the leaves. The left image is a close crop of the arm, and the right image shows the tattoo smaller on a woman's upper arm with a dark top and a long plait.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Pull your chairs in, and keep your backs to the door, because the snow has been piling against it since noon and it will come in after you if you give it half a chance. My grandmother kept this inn when the road over the moor was nothing but a sheep track, and she told me this story the winter the pass shut for six weeks. She swore it was true, though she also swore the pig at the bottom of the yard could count to ten.

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There was a boy called Ewan Pell whose mother had a cough that would not loosen, and the apothecary in the valley said only the hips from the old briar on the chapel wall would help her. Nobody had picked from that briar in living memory. The monks had let it climb the stones, a thin tangle of stems with thorns like cat's claws, and the hips hung on it red as sealing wax even after the frost had taken every leaf but the dark ones at the tips.

Ewan went up at dusk with a knife in his teeth and his sleeve pulled down over his hand. Halfway along the wall he found a single flower still open under the snow, pink as a schoolgirl's ribbon, its yellow middle bright as a coin. He stood there so long his breath froze on his collar. When he finally cut a branch, a thorn opened his forearm and a drop of his blood ran down the stem, and the whole bush gave a little shiver, the way a horse does when the saddle is set on.

He carried the hips home inside his shirt. His mother drank the tea, and by spring she was singing again. Ewan went back up that June, dug a cutting from the wall and set it by the inn door. It is still there, look, just past the lamp. Mind the thorns when you go out.

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