During most of the Seventies, I believed No Man's Land was the little raised area in the back of a car, between the two seats - specifically, in the back of our Ford Capri or, later, the ungainly VW my dad part-exchanged it for in a pub car park.

It was the space that officially separated my brother and me during the epic journey from suburban south London to Granny's house in Scotland.

City of our birth and source of the best mutton pies in Scotland, Dundee had a near-mythical status - it was Oz, and the A1 our Yellow Brick Road. The 500-mile trip did feel like being in the film. It always started at night, Sandy and me in sleeping bags, mesmerised by the constant flicker of streetlights which marked each frame of the journey. The soundtrack was invariably Pink Floyd or, as we neared the border, bagpipes.

By the time the credits rolled we'd be awash with tat from the tourist shop at Scotch Corner. I was a sucker for a troll in a tam-o'-shanter. Mum couldn't resist half a pound of tablet or a bag of soor plums. Woe betide her if she tried to distribute them, though. That was tantamount to starting the Third World War.

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