In my four months of motherhood, I’ve re-learned how to sleep. Late-night wake ups come with a ticking time clock, a suspension in a half-awake state, teetering on the edge of dreams just enough that it’s easy to sink back into the pillows. My number one rule is to avoid opening my phone at all costs, lest it steal away my tiredness. But that night was different. That night I took a cautious glance, and saw a WhatsApp had arrived not two minutes earlier. “Is anyone awake? My waters have broken.”

This wasn’t a drill, or a vague “I think something’s happening.” My friend was in labour. She wasn’t due for another month. On an island, that sentence carries extra weight.

I was jolted awake immediately, pulled on yesterday’s jeans and blindly felt around for a hoodie, all the while explaining to my husband in hushed whispers where I was running off to in the middle of the night. The plan was simple - the helicopter had been called, and was due in at quarter past. Could I watch the house briefly while my friend’s partner drove her down to the landing site? It would land on the grass in front of the castle, the flattest, most reliable stretch of ground we have, beneath the dark silhouette of red sandstone.

Why the snowdrops tell me I’m finally at home on my Hebridean island

On Rum, even car batteries – and mothers – need........

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