I’m standing in the queue for security at Ibiza airport. I’ve been on a whistle-stop tour of the Balearic which is notorious for its summer clubbing but in winter is as quiet as Barry Island, though a lot sunnier, prettier and with better fish and chips.

After a couple of idyllic days I’m heading back to Stansted. All I’ve got to do is maintain the will to live through the next few hours.

The flight out was my first experience of Ryanair. It’s not, I have to admit, ever going to be my airline of choice, simply because as a child of the 1950s I associate airlines with glamour and luxury. To be an air hostess then was to reach the pinnacle of sophistication – those smart but sexy uniforms, those thick layers of lipstick, the fluency in French and the matching cigarettes. No one could accuse Ryanair of that.

It’s an airline with a very different role. It moves passengers from one place to another, through the air. On time, whenever possible. And at a low price.

If you want anything approaching luxury, it will cost you. You want to put a bag in the hold? Extra. You want to carry on a small case and a separate handbag? No can do. Is that a bottle of duty free? If it doesn’t fit into your hand luggage, your duty is to leave it behind. No argument.

As the ladies at the gate repeatedly told the passengers hoping to board the plane, it’s written perfectly clearly there on your boarding pass. One bag only.

My last memory of England was the huddle of would-be passengers dumping jumpers and bottles of vodka at the check-in, their bottom lips trembling with outrage or DTs.

For all it seems a harsh regime, though, it appears to work. Just as a firm nanny produces model children, Ryanair’s insistence on sticking to its rules produces model passengers. The group I’ve been travelling with may own fewer clothes and have given up smoking or drinking, but as we all repacked to leave Ibiza there wasn’t an additional carrier bag or camera to be seen.

We stand like compliant sheep waiting to go through security and on to the gate, and then on to the seats that if, like me, you are shorter than five feet four are adequate enough, though at this point I am blissfully unaware that I will spend two hours up close to a hyperactive would-be DJ who will be wearing nothing more on his upper body than a thin black vest. No, not even a hint of anti-perspirant.

As the line for security moves forward, I mentally check my possessions.

What a good weekend this has been, I think. Doesn’t the white sunlight lift your spirits at the end of January?

How good were the lamb shanks and mussels au gratin, and the flan made from goats cheese and honey.

And how sweet were our hosts, a farmer and his wife, who opened up their home and several bottles of sweet home made wine to us. How lovely to walk around a sunny orchard this morning before we left, and even to taste an orange picked from the tree.

How the farmer smiled at our delight, clearly wondering why the UK doesn’t consider importing citrus fruit if the mere smell of the zest sends its citizens into such raptures.

The security lady beckons me to come forward through the metal archway, and waves at my body with a paddles. In just three hours, I think, I’ll be back in the UK, and on the way home.

She crouches down and begins patting my legs. She reaches my fleece, pauses and continues packing. Then she jumps back, and says something in Spanish. It might be a swear word. I don’t know.

What is in that? She asks sharply, pointing to my fleece pocket. Two of her colleagues walk smartly towards me, frowning hard. I reach into my pocket, and finger the lemon that the farmer picked for me just two hours ago.

It’s okay, I say, trying to smile. But even I realise that it’s about the same size and shape as a grenade. I start to ease it out of my pocket. I do it very, very slowly.