As life speeds by, it’s the simple journeys - and the people we share them with - that linger longest in the rearview mirror, says Mick Booker

Getting into the car for a cross-country drive and heading off to see relatives.

In this case it was me picking up my dad and mum on the outskirts of Leeds and heading for a weekend at my brother’s home in York.

It was the first time we’d done it in years, after me and my brother had long since moved out and started families of our own in different parts of the country.

But here we were, back chattering away, in my slightly weather-beaten Ford C-Max with dad, who at the time was coming towards the end of a terminal illness, happier than I’d seen him in months.

As it turned out it was the final family journey I had with him.

The end of a long road filled with trips that had started with us regularly heading up and down the A1 when I was a kid.

After moving to London 20-odd years ago my family and I have followed a similar route, in every sense.

But it was only last week I remembered just how special those moments in the car really are.

The occasion was my Mother-in-law’s birthday in Durham and, amazingly, we were all able to go.

With the two kids (I say kids, but they are 26 and 21) back home together for more than a day for the first time in years we decided to drive up.

I don’t know how much time you’ve spent on the A1, but it is a road that raises a lot of questions for the more curious travellers amongst us.

And the fun thing is that we have always been keen to find out the answers.

The key question being just why does Britain’s least erotic road need to have at least three sex shops and a swinger’s hotel?

Now, before you ask, I don’t have a view on which is our most erotic highway.

But it is a well commented upon mystery, at least it is in our car, as to why there’s so much more on offer for Britain’s randier road users on this particular stretch of tarmac than any other.

There’s plenty of other distractions on the way up and down.

We’ve learned a lot about the world, with all life to be found in the services stations along the way.

But the best thing is that we were all together.

With all the distractions life has to offer these days there’s not many other places where you must commit to tolerating each other ‘s company for five hours at a time.

Of course, I’d be lying if I told you every trip we’d had had been smooth.

Terrible traffic jams and breakdowns, both mechanical and mental, have often been a feature.

The time I snapped at the wife just north of Scotch Corner over not filling up the window washers triggered a relationship freeze that at one point looked like going on longer than the last Ice Age.

Come to think of it, that wasn’t as bad as the time I decided it was a good idea to take our bad-tempered Lithuanian French Bulldog up north for Christmas and she (the dog not the wife) tried to bite the kids in a back seat fight over a stray Quality Street Caramel Swirl.

That left both of us in the doghouse.

It’s foolish I know but I’ve always made the mistake of judging the course and relative success of my life by that of similar aged celebrities.

In my case the highest profile contemporary is David Beckham.

It’s been a bit of a one-sided battle, albeit one he didn’t realise he was in; truth be told.

As you may have guessed I’m a little behind him in terms of bank balance.

And I’m yet to be called up for a full international cap, although I do qualify for Scotland by birth which means the chance can’t completely be ruled out due to the current dearth of talent.

If recent reports are to be believed Becks is about to go one up on me in terms of Knighthoods too.

The one time I was virtually neck and neck with him was when we both became first time dads in 1999 at the age of 23, although true to future form, he managed to beat me to it by two months.

But one thing I think I am equal with him on is a shared love of spending time with the family.

Admittedly, and I’m only judging by his Instagram output, his quality time is spent in slightly more luxurious surroundings than a hatchback at Wyboston service station, but you get my point.

As usual he won the race to reach 50 first, cleverly utilising the advantage of being born three months before me.

But now I’m closing in on that landmark birthday and maybe I’m starting to get a bit mellow in middle age.

That’s why last week’s trip meant something a bit more.

Hell, I wasn’t even too annoyed when I raced to the toilets at Blyth Services only to be confronted by a bus load of pensioners grumbling in a queue that snaked back all the way to the Costa coffee concession.

They were a formidable bunch, men in elasticated trousers whose groaning prostates would wait for no man.

That’s something else I’ve got to look forward to tackling soon.

I’m already steadily approaching the age where the gap between where the skin tags end and the haemorrhoids begin starts to get smaller every day.

I’ve been guilty of taking life a bit too seriously recently.

But that bubble of pomposity was pierced when I thought of dad’s words when we were back on the road again last week.

After all, it’s the simple pleasures that matter, the ones you remember.

He was right, it was nice doing it again. All of us together.

You never know when you are going to get the next chance.

But I do hope it’s not the end of our road just yet.