LAST year, an astonishing 60% of the homes sold on the Spanish coast were bought by the British. More than one million British people now own property in Spain. This week I joined their swelling (and sweating) ranks.

Many would argue that the presence of a million British homeowners in Spain is reason enough to avoid the place. Granted, vast stretches of the coast have been ruined by the British. But I’ve managed to find a piece of paradise where hardly anyone speaks English and no, I’m not going to tell you where.

Friends have reacted with a mixture of envy and concern. They inevitably ask: “Have the Spanish proved difficult?” This reveals a common cultural prejudice, namely that hot weather supposedly breeds corruption. The British assume that while the UK might not be blessed with a good climate, it at least has honest bankers.

Honest they may be, but competent they ain’t. If I’d been able to leave everything to the Spanish, the entire deal could have been completed in a fortnight. Unfortunately I was dependent on British banks to realise my dream, and they threw huge boulders in my path. A Scottish bank – that really big one – took six weeks to process a simple application, nearly scuppering the deal.

British banks seem to have forgotten that the borrower is a customer. Tellers and loan officers might be friendly, but behind them lurk an army of cyborgs, trained to render the customer submissive with mind-numbing bureaucracy.

In contrast, my Spanish bank believes the customer is king. Setting up an account takes minutes. All the literature is in English. Everything can be done online. My bank manager, Josep, approved my mortgage on the basis of a few payslips in a matter of days.

When I told him about my trouble with British banks, Josep remarked: “This I do not understand. It is not a difficult decision. You look at the house. Is it good? Si. You look at the borrower. Is he able to make the payments? Si. That should not take more than two days.”

Josep and his colleagues were also incredibly friendly. My first contact came with his assistant, Carmen, who combined professionalism with real warmth. When I signed the mortgage papers last Monday, I was delighted to find the interest rate was 1% lower than we had expected. Carmen explained: “I told Josep that we had to get a good rate for nice Mr DeGroot.”

After the deal was concluded, I found myself in Josep’s bank carrying a large bag.  “What have you been buying?”, he asked.  I told him that I’d been to the hardware store to buy some tools, including an electric drill.  “You did not have to do that”, he said.  Confused, I asked “What do you mean.”  “Well”, he replied, “I am very fond of DIY and have every tool.  You can borrow anything you want from me.”  Every once in awhile, I try to imagine a similar conversation with a British banker.  The image never quite materialises.

Granted, some aspects of the legal process were a bit frightening. There’s great ceremony to the final act of purchase, with sellers, buyers, bankers, lawyers and agents all meeting in a notary’s office to sign the deed. Since most of the process was conducted in Spanish at machine-gun speed, it felt a bit like being led blindfolded through unfamiliar countryside. Fortunately, my guides were good.

The Spanish love cash. The buyer demanded that the majority of his proceeds be paid in banknotes – apparently a reasonable request. He wanted separate amounts for each of his creditors, who were lurking in the hallways of the notario. Poor Carmen had to walk across the village with seven envelopes stuffed with cash, in total about 200,000.