I flew into airport on Spanish island loved by tourists and it was hell for anyone British

My flight from to was pleasant, if rather lengthy at four and a bit hours. I felt quite relaxed, albeit like the walking dead after around three hours' sleep, as I read the paper and chatted to a nice couple from Southampton, Dougie and Hayley, about what it was like having a on the island. I've never been there, as my family holidays have been either on other Canary Islands or mainland Spain.

I had the window seat, and the middle seat in my row was free, giving me a little more wiggle room. All was well. This, however, changed after I exited the plane. Getting on a bus at the bottom of the stairs, everything seemed in order. But as we edged closer to arrivals, a monster of a queue loomed into view. As it was a bit chilly in the aircraft, I was wearing a jumper, and there was no room in my bag (I'd tried to be clever and not take a suitcase as I was only going to be there for a few days) for my jacket (weather reports suggested it might rain).

Consequently, the wait in the sun, which feels different, more harsh near the equator than the softer rays in the UK, before entering the building was quite unpleasant in multiple layers, as I scrambled to catch up with messages on my phone (I was not going to pay £5 for a few hours of Wi-Fi on the flight). But this was nowhere near the end.

"Jesus, it's even bigger on the inside," I messaged the photographer accompanying me on this work trip, who had got in just before me, once I saw an even larger queue inside. To join it, I had to pass through a strange row of doors that resembled some sort of decontamination pods, intermittently opening and closing, displaying a red cross or green arrow.

A woman with a clipboard and high-vis jacket asked a young couple in front of me: "Minors? Over 18? British?" Laughing, they confirmed they were adults and Britons. As we joined the line, I heard someone ask: "I wonder how this airport functions in the summer." Another said: "Our bags have probably gone. They've sent them back to London."

The hot weather and huge mass of stressed bodies meant it was extremely warm, but due to the slow-moving queue, I managed to take off some layers. This only helped a little. As we shuffled along, people from an Aer Lingus flight arrived. The clipboard woman asked everyone passing through the strange doors if they were British or from the Emerald Isle.

The latter got to walk on and join a different queue, which seemed to go down a lot quicker. Upon seeing the line of Brits, one of them said, "Oh, my God. Look at this place. Jesus." Signs further along made it very clear that one queue was for European passports, and the other was dedicated solely to UK holders over 18.

There were no e-Gates that I could see at this airport, although some, including me, were filed through some scanners for what seemed to be an extra check before getting their document stamped at a counter by a rather grumpy-looking border officer, and ultimately let into the country. Let's hope more e-Gates are installed at European airports and Sir Keir Starmer's deal allowing more British travellers to use them when going on holiday will actually make things smoother.