At the boundary you expect there to be some kind of gulf, or a wall, or at least an imposing wire fence – but on reaching it you realise that the crossings are the only guarded places. No-man’s land blends into us and them until there is no telling the difference.

Looking left and then right no line disapears into the distance. There is just the unbroken horizon.

The crossings themselves are not heavily fortified. It takes just one man to swing open the gate to let large vehicles cross.

Here you stand at the border, and all it takes to cross is a few sheets of paper, stapled together and inky stamps inside.

The funny thing about the border is it becomes more real and concrete the further you get from it. Standing on the verge you see it is nothing more than a line on a map.