I read The Chronicles of Narnia when I was extremely young (five, I think, or maybe six) - even before I read LoTR, and for the next ten years I gave very hard second looks to all mysterious doorways and ancient cupboards. LoTR is still my dearest love when it comes to fantasy, but Narnia I loved first, because if you really think about it, that's urban fantasy (or the closest anybody came to it during the mid-twentieth century), and in any case the adventure began with human beings from the normal world. And, sigh. :)
I mean, as a slightly more discerning human now, and as a writer, I have a much lower opinion of C.S. Lewis as a writer - I hate the way he ended the books and categorically refuse to read The Last Battle ever again. (Take a perfectly good flight of fancy and shove it into a Biblical Allegory box, why don't you. Pfft.) But all that aside, I still give hard second looks at mysterious doorways and ancient cupboards. Just out of habit. And because a large part of me is still eight years old.
Though I always resented that there was an age limit. Feh.
And now I'm thinking of Oz, and Peter Pan, and those two I was reminded of by Hush, though to be honest I get into these funks once or twice a year so it's nothing to worry about. Still, it makes me wish I could be eight again. Or near enough.
*sigh* Ah, well. Tomorrow I must fetch my six-year-old pseudo-cousin Jeremy from French Immersion daycamp, and when we get home I will sit him down and we will watch Prince Caspian together. Or perhaps The Neverending Story. Or Willow. (Gods, the eighties had *great* fantasy movies. ;) Though he's not allowed to watch the second Harry Potter movie, because his dad says he has to read the book first. ;)