Going to a doctor's appointment on a boat in a choppy sea is a slightly surreal experience but yet another I'll cherish from my island existence, writes islander and Herald columnist Elle Duffy

When you think of a doctor's appointment, you might imagine sitting in a sterile waiting room with peeling posters and three-year-old magazines. But living on an island like Rum, that picture is slightly different.

I'm sitting on the bottom deck of a small boat, perched onto a surprisingly comfortable mattress in a tiny room which has a single window and a dangling light. It's not a calm day at sea - even in the usually protected waters of Kinloch Bay, there's a choppiness that pulls this boat from side to side, up and down.

I remember writing about the thrill of doctor's appointments at home on Rum a few months ago, and the rapid cleaning spree that came beforehand. The cups of tea, the sigh of relief when I realised my doctor was a cat person. But now, I realise that home luxury is not always the case. Sometimes, the schedule is too busy, or the time is just too tight, and we need to go to them.

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It felt strange at first, before I remembered that this is, of course, exactly what I had done in my 26 years of mainland living. Hiking up the hill on Glasgow's High Street to reach my GP surgery round the back of the Royal Infirmary was the norm, as were the long cues for the pharmacy and stuffy waiting rooms. So really, when I took the 10 minute bay-side walk to the pier on a wet Wednesday, it was almost nostalgic. A nice contrasting reminder of how things used to be, with a protruding baby bump leading the way.

There were a few other locals sitting waiting on their own appointments, and I hopped into a friend's car for a blether to shelter from the weather. The ferry had been around half an hour earlier, and it seemed everyone had had the same idea - an all-in-one trip to take our bins out to the skips at the pier, pick up any deliveries from the ferry, and make our doctor's appointments. A rather productive afternoon, if you ask me.

I am, of course, romanticising what really is a normal part of day to day life here, and I'm doing it in part to distract myself from the blood being drawn from my arm. I've never been a fan of needles - the crash mats that were wheeled out in vaccine centres? Those would be for me, thank you very much. It's never the act itself, but the anticipation that gets me, and it seems that it doesn't get much better on a boat.

I'm seeing the GP in lieu of my midwife, who has been trying desperately to reach the island for the last week or so, but ferry cancellations and timings have made it impossible. I walked down a slick slipway to reach the floating clinic, and a neighbour who had just finished her appointment rushed to my side to help me walk the rest of the way, before handing me over to the skipper who lifted me onto the boat. Not that I'm complaining - even before being pregnant, my balance has never been good, and I'm glad I can use being 32 weeks along as an excuse for a little princess treatment.

The doctor had a student nurse with her, and we spent most of the appointment chatting about our lives in between the various tests and measurements. How interesting it must be to embark on a career in healthcare and find yourself in the middle of a choppy bay, raiding cupboards to find a container large enough to comfortably give a wee sample in a tiny boat bathroom (spoiler: we didn't find an appropriate holder, and it went as well as can be expected).

My measurements were taken, my blood drawn, a vaccine administered and after much prodding and poking, we heard the baby's heartbeat. Strong, definite, and a sound I'll never get bored of. There was a moment of silence as we listened to it, all of us grinning at each other in the cramped room, the sea swaying softly in the background. In the last two weeks, he's stepped up his activity, and I definitely haven't had more than four hours of uninterrupted sleep for a long time - a sign of what is yet to come, I suppose. I don't think he quite understands that he's got a few weeks to go, and no matter how hard he tries, he's not escaping any time soon.

As I stepped off the boat - or rather, the skipper lifted me off while the GP stood behind me with a guiding hand - I felt that familiar blend of island life that I've grown accustomed to; part total absurdity, part magic. Hearing my first baby's heartbeat on a mattress surrounded by sea and salt and the warmth of a wonderful medical team is a feeling I doubt you could replicate, and it's another moment on this island adventure that I'll cherish forever.