Van's new fan

The first time I saw Van Morrison in concert I was a grungy, scrubby 20-year-old who had bunked into Féile - ah, remember Féile? - in Tralee and was out of my head on cheap cider. I say I saw him, but he was just a tiny dot with a hat on in the distance. I remember dancing along more from a sense of duty than anything else. He was

Van the Man. He was a musical genius. Ipso facto you paid homage. Plus, as I said, I was out of my head.

Morrison is one of those artists who never really featured on the soundtrack of my life. I've only recently got into Bob Dylan. It turns out certain music is an acquired taste, like Guinness and blue cheese. I'm also one of those people who started to tune into the greatness of U2 only after Elevationand How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. Of course, logically I knew Onewas officially the greatest song ever written and Sunday Bloody Sundaymight as well have been our national anthem, but it was only when I heard the likes of Kiteand Sometimes You Can't Make It on Your Ownat a concert in Manchester that their music spoke to me. About 20 years late I became a U2 fan.

I was living in Belfast six years ago and had just met my boyfriend when I was sent on a Morrison-related summer assignment. I was asked to follow the route described in his song Coney Islandand report back on the experience. I'm ashamed to say it was the first time I'd heard the song, which most of you will know isn't really a song at all but a magical poem spoken by Morrison to a backdrop of music.

So we drove, with Coney Islandon the stereo, listening to Morrison's hypnotic Belfast voice as, directed by the song, we stopped for potted herrings over the hill in Ardglass, and got the Sunday papers at the Lecale district. The sun was shining, and "all the time going to Coney Island" we were thinking "wouldn't it be great if it was like this all the time?" (When we eventually reached Coney Island, at sunset, we had one of our first snogs, balancing on some stones at the water's edge, which I didn't think was appropriate to include in the resulting article, so God knows why I'm telling you now.)

A few years later I went on a Van Morrison bus tour of Belfast that was being run as part of the small but perfectly formed Cathedral Quarter Arts Festival. Again, apart from the hits, I still didn't know his music but was fascinated to walk down the street where he lived, to see his primary school and hear about Madame George, a character in a song on his album Astral Weeks.

And that was the last I'd thought about the man until I got a call the other week asking if I would like to go to an intimate Van Morrison concert at the Culloden hotel, outside Belfast.

I was intrigued. You hear about his being notoriously grumpy, but here he was, doing a charity concert to help a Co Down school construct a new arts building. So it turned out to be Rockport, the alma mater of one of Snow Patrol and one of the poshest schools in the whole of Northern Ireland, with some of the wealthiest parents, but it's still charity.

And, okay, after a bit of digging I discovered he was being paid handsomely, but when you think of beautiful people with purpose you think of Brangelina, not Van Morrison. As I say, I was intrigued.

The only way I can describe the concert is by asking you to imagine having Morrison as your wedding band. The £170-a-head paying guests, just 300 of them, feasted on a five-course dinner, then on came Morrison, who played for an hour and a half without a break. There was much restrained toe-tapping by the seated black-tie crowd until he launched into Moondance, at which point they lunged at the small stage, waving their hands in the air and jiving - yes, jiving - with gusto.

There was Van. A large dot with a hat on. I wanted to get closer, not to jive but to observe. I pushed through the throng and stood with one foot on the stage, watching him work, through Brown Eyed Girland Jackie Wilson Saidand Real Real Goneand Cleaning Windowsand Precious Timeand Days Like Thisand Have I Told You Latelyand Gloria.Ah, Gloria.

He spoke not one word during the concert. When the digital clock at the side of the stage said an hour and a half was up, he left the building. He didn't sing the song that hints at why he might be grumpy with music journalists who want him to be a media-friendly star. "And I never turned out to be the person that you wanted me to be/ And I tell you who I am, time and time and time again/ Tell me why must I always explain." No explanation necessary. I went home and downloaded Astral Weeks. I'm a Van fan now.