Can you remember the books you loved as a child? The books your parents read to you and then, when you were able to, the books you read over and over again? I used to feel transported to another realm. I remember crying over the poor Mock Turtle when my mother read me Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland because I really believed he would be made into soup. I remember feeling sorry for Eeyore on his own in that damp and gloomy part of the Hundred Acre Wood in Winnie the Pooh and I vividly recall the fascination I felt when Mary Lennox found the secret walled garden and when she heard the screams in the night in that dark, old house on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors in The Secret Garden.