Number 4 Privet Drive

The first page of the first book.
Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone



And so it began. I've said before that words can hold hidden power to touch us in so many ways. Often it happens suddenly but sometimes the magic is so strong that the spell continues to work forever and we may only realise just how spellbound that we are until later,much later. A seemingly very ordinary person or place can become etched upon our minds and hearts because of a wonderfully written book or a film.

J.K. Rowling signed, 'the book that changed my life.'
Many could have signed underneath, 'Me Too!'

In the case of Harry Potter our lives have been graced by both.

Rubeus Hagrid delivers baby Harry to 4 Privet Drive

Right from the beginning when Rubeus Hagrid dropped off the baby Harry at the suburban address of number 4 Privet Drive this address had entered a special place from which, no matter how it tried, it could never be ordinary again. It would take on a life and meaning much bigger than the house itself could ever be in real life.

The current owners have put the house on the market. Though this little house was not the favourite abode of choice of Harry who much preferred Hogwarts, you can imagine the excitement of the children who knew that Harry had been there.

The real perfectly ordinary house in a perfectly ordinary road.

The film set created at Warners Bros Studio, Leavesden
for the subsequent films

The house in the book and film is at Number 4 Privet Drive, in Little Whingeing, Surrey. This was a clever touch from J.K. Rowling as 'privet' has a wholesome image due to the many lovely English country cottages tucked behind privet hedges, and the quiet well behaved suburban streets, such as those written about by John Betjeman, where the neighbourhoods are kept tidy by well tended privet hedges. And Little Whingeing? Well, you know how snooty folk can be keeping up with the neighbourhood.  

A vintage poster extolling the virtue of suburbia.

The real house, which is actually at 12 Picket Post Close, near Bracknell, Berkshire, is not far from us here in our little village and I was tempted to go and take a peak at it. Growing up I despaired that it seemed all the fair maidens, knights, ghosts and fairies always lived in grand houses in obviously magical places.

Professor Minerva McGonagall as a cat in Privet Drive

Not often did the hero or heroine arrive from an ordinary place. Later I came to appreciate hugely any that did and the writers who gave a magic life to plain things.

The quiet cul-de-sac where 4 Privet Drive resided

The sitting/Dining Room, Kitchen & small garden

The estate agent's brochure does not have any photographs of an under stair cupboard, which the owner admits was not used for the films but instead houses a non-magical ironing board and the toys of her children. 

The main bedroom and the two single bedrooms

There is nothing magical about the house itself, as you can clearly see in these photos. But somehow you do keep expecting Harry to appear. The main bedroom does have a touch of purple about it, but only a tasteful amount. And is that a Gruffalo in one of the children's rooms there?

The Dursley's  purple chintz bedroom in the films

Harry in his under the stairs bedroom, from Vanity Fair 2001

The idea that J.K. Rowling chose to hide the young vulnerable Harry in such a suburban street, in plain sight, so to speak, thrilled me. And I thanked her for that, knowing how it would give hope to so many ordinary children that their own lives could be touched by the magic that many literary sources deny to them.

Homes and Property in their article, say this about the house: full article here:

"The property in Picket Post Close near Reading, known as 4 Privet Drive in the film, was selected out of hundreds of houses around the UK to become the home of Harry's Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and cousin Dudley Dursley.

The three-bedroom house in Martins Heron, Bracknell, was cast as the "perfectly ordinary house on a perfectly ordinary street" for the 2001 film, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. The property’s then owner Sandra Smith was approached by filmmakers who spotted the house and thought it closely resembled the Thirties home in Little Whinging, Surrey described by JK Rowling. Filming took place at the location over two weeks as the property was transformed into the home of the Dursley family.

The Boy Who Lived famously did so in the cupboard-under-the-stairs - during his early years, at least.

Harry's aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon reserved two of four bedrooms in Privet Drive for their odious son Dudley, one for themselves and another for guests. While Harry kept the spiders and the vacuum cleaner company in the cupboard at night. In Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone the orphan wizard is quickly moved into “Dudley’s second bedroom” by his rattled relatives after he starts receiving letters addressed to “Harry Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs.”

Harry's mail

Harry's mail takes over the sitting room

The current owner has lived there since May 2010 when the house was purchased for £290,000.   Seven years earlier, it was put up for auction with a much higher guide price than its market value thanks to its connection to Harry Potter, but the home failed to sell when the £250,000 reserve price wasn't met - despite receiving a bid of £249,000. "

You can read an interview with the current owner Claire Powder who is blissfully unaware of the owner of Potter having never read the books or seen any but the first film which included their home.  Here:

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There has been a lot of interest in the house. I had to smile when I read the usual warning that, "viewings are strictly by appointment only".  Better to be safe than sorry, Dementors might turn up uninvited like they have before.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

This is a perfect excuse to remember some of the moments of 4 Privet Drive, from the first film when the real house was used, and later after the stage set had been built for the films that followed.



The owls are not what they seem ....

Proud and snobby Dursleys at home

Harry and his Uncle

Harry's under stairs cupboard bedroom

The Order of the Phoenix

Dobby visits Harry in his bedroom at Privet Drive

 

The Dursleys leaving 4 Privet Drive

Harry says goodbye to Hedwig

The Deathly Hallows, The final battle nears,
friends meet at 4 Privet Drive

In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Harry is 16 years old, still underage for a Wizard and unable to use his powers to the full without attracting unwanted attention.  Members of the Order of the Phoenix come to 4 Privet Drive to escort Harry to the Burrow. The rationale behind this was that they couldn't use the Floo Network, they couldn't Apparate, they couldn't use a Portkey, and Harry still had the Trace on him. 





Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1
Harry and Hagrid leave Privet Drive for the last time

further Reading:

Well, the books, of course!

But you could start here for more information: Harry Potter Wiki for 4 Privet Drive

Or here, at Pottermore

The Kindness of Strangers

'Catching Butterflies' by Colleen Parker
HERE:

I don't publish blog posts as often as I mean to. I have a folder full of subjects and images which whisper to me, spinning their stories like dream catchers. I continue to be delighted at the kindness of strangers (and friends) who read my little pieces and who take the time to comment, and in many cases to share information with me which had thus far eluded me.

The Dyng Year, Albert Klingner

We are well into the New Year, and although I do not like to commit to resolutions I think it is not a bad thing to just try harder to finish those things which mean something to us and enhance our lives, and possibly the life of someone else too.

People often ask me why that I write. I think most people who do so would agree with me that it fills some need. I simply must.

HERE:

Butterfly gloves by Tiny Owl Knits
HERE:

I almost always have thoughts floating round my head and must capture them and put them to paper or page before they fly away. I dislike things being forgotten whether that be people, places or words and images.

The past is full of wisdom and the older that we get we become full too. Where does it all go when we die? It is the ordinary folk who are often forgotten, and with them volumes of stories. So I think I write to share those stories.

from the things we say

The Storyteller, Albert Anker (1850-1899)

When I was little I was often sat enthralled by the old storytellers in my family, little did I think that one day it would fall to me to tell their tale along with those of many others, and my own.

I usually begin each new year looking backwards at the old one. Just briefly. I am not very good at goodbyes and I like to linger for a little while before moving on.

Joan Crawford in an art deco revolving door

The past to me is not a door which you shut firmly behind you. For me it is a revolving door which goes both ways. Always.

Like most of you, last year I said farewell to many familiar people and places. My world is less certain without the guideposts they provided and it will take more time for me to find my balance again. Over the next few weeks I want to try, very hard, to do them justice in putting a little of their stories to the page and sharing this with you so that hopefully, somewhere, sometime, someone will find them again.

Of course this year began with the death of two best beloved storytellers, David Bowie, and Alan Rickman. The loss is felt greatly by many, myself included, but then there are all of the little people who told stories quietly in smaller worlds and yet released them just as well.

Lost things often do become found and in so doing they are new again. If things such as us are remembered I believe we never completely die. Only a part of us does.

Lizzie Riches
more HERE:

I posted last Spring about paper mache eggs and boxes (which I collect) and ended the post with a lovey painting that has haunted me for sometime. I asked readers to leave me a comment should anyone know whose artistic hand had created this piece. The original post is HERE:

Woman by the fire
Lionel Percy Smythe

And, someone did. Thank you very much to Paresh Dholakia! It was especially interesting for me to have the name of this artist, Lionel Percy Smythe, because this time last year his work touched me quite deeply when I accidently came across it on a gallery catalogue. I posted a bit about him, and the story of the painting in the catalogue, 
HERE:

I had not guessed at all that this too was by his hand and without the kindness of strangers I may have never known.



I have always depended on the kindness of strangers, is a line from Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire (1947)

Two Doors Down From The Witch

Two Doors Down

Once upon a time in the 1980s I lived in an ordinary looking house in a terrace, (especially on a bright sunny day as this), in East Twickenham, by the river Thames, two doors down from The Witch.

June was a good Witch. She lived in the biggest house on our street, on the corner of our terrace. A large Edwardian with leaded glass winking in the windows and a little attic dormer. Suitably distressed it had a lovely porch with gingerbread pillers and red clay roof tiles. The entry hall was so large that there was a fireplace on one wall. The room was painted violet.

In those days I did not own a camera so sadly the images used here are borrowed, or from much later after June had died.  Even then, looking sad without it's Witch it was still charming to me for I knew what enchanting times this house had known.

The Witch's house, taken by me much later

I know that many people believe that we do not hold to Halloween and Trick or Treat here in England - but that was not true of that road in Twickenham where The Witch had lived for those many years. I do not know just how many years that June lived in the house by the river, but each Halloween she opened her home to all the trick and treaters of the neighbourhood and she had thrilled (and scared) generations of local children.

She spent many days before All Hallows decorating the house, especially the old porch where there would be a skeleton and frightening music when you rang the bell. A specially prepared Halloween feast awaited those who dared to enter.

June had pointy toed lace up boots and always wore a long black dress with a cape or interesting cloak. And, of course, a pointy hat. She could cackle too, but usually just got a fit of giggles.

pointy toed Witch boots

I was young when I first celebrated Halloween at the Witch's house and I had to buy a black hat to be allowed inside. Many years later I would dress up my Godson and take him to meet June and play with her Grandchildren. It was inspiring to see that children who grew up returned with their children. Looking back I'm not sure that I knew then what June meant to all of us. She had a bit of Bell Book and Candle, Bewitched, The Aunts in Practical Magic, and Minerva McGonegal in her. But most of all she was pure June. She was The Witch, the local storyteller of many tales.

She was The Witch

I met June, and ended up living two doors down due to my then boyfriend having once lived in that very street with his parents. He had been one of June's charmed children and then officially a Godchild of hers. His Mother had died when he was young and returning there, two doors down, was like coming home for him.

June's middle initial was E and the names of her four children all began with 'E'. I never did find out why. She loved children and always said that had her 4th pregnancy not been a difficult one she would have carried on having them for who knows how long. The thing she wanted more than anything was Grandchildren, and she did get them. One of her children had given her a framed photograph of Margaret Hamilton as The Wicked Witch in Oz. I gave June my little felt mouse dressed in a Witch costume which was one of my most treaured possessions brought with me from San Francisco.

Visiting June's house felt like coming home.
The Practical Magic house.

June took me under her broom and she was the first person who made me think that perhaps I too was a Witch. One of my own first memories of Halloween, when I was about 5, was dressing as a Witch to trick or treat our small Californian neighbourhood. June did not have a cat as a familiar. She did have a Tortoise in the walled garden whose name escapes me but I recall them putting it away for winter to hibernate and one year when it broke out before anyone thought it was time to awake.  I had four cats who all used to walk along the top of the terrace and visit June's house. One cat, a ginger tabby named Macavity, climbed to the very top of the house which was the office of June's husband and we spent hours trying to talk it off the roof through the attic window.  

The house endlessly fascinated me. The top floor was known as the nursery and was mostly given over to the children who had a train set which covered a vast area, always set up ready to play. Who would not love a house with both a cellar and an attic? It had French oak floors and the staircase rail was beautifully carved and twisted.  Things were always being revealed to me there. One day we decided to enquire what was in the garage. It turned out to house a very old, very beautiful Alvis.

Along with Halloween and Margaret Hamilton, June also loved The Day of the Dead. On the top of a bookcase in the dining room sat a skeleton scene, arranged around a dining table at a meal. She loved Toucans and we marvelled at how she could drink Guinness even though she was a tiny Witch.

A good cook, as you would expect of a Witch, she liked collecting mushrooms and made the best mushroom soup I have ever tasted.

June was not the only magical being in the house at the end of the terrace. Her husband was a word wizard. He knew all sorts of things most people had forgotten. He could quote from Wilde, Shakespeare, Lewis Carrol and many obscure writings. He was an editor and a man well known for his charm and wit. During his working life he made magic for The Sunday Times, World of Interiors, and The Church Times. It was he who first introduced me to Edward Lear and to an antique/junk shop in St Margaret's called Cheney Galleries. I mostly kept a carved oak chair I bought there to remind me of him. On one visit there we found a small sketch which we believed was an Edward Lear. Alas, I do not know what became of that. He was a perfect host and loved having people over for drinks on New Years. On Halloween he stayed out of the way of all the Witches and Ghoulies. He could usually be found in a corner in an old chair, his glasses perched upon his nose behind a newspaper. When anyone was talking a bit of nonsense he had this way of raising one eyebrow and looking at them from over his glasses.

It was a wonderful community to live in and I miss those days. Sundays were spent at a local pub, a walk across the river over Richmond Bridge.

My boyfriend and I moved away from Twickenham and we parted ways. I did not see much of June but I kept in touch. I am very glad that June was still alive when Practical Magic, Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings were made into films. I hope that she was able to see them all, she would have loved knowing that the magic of storytelling was alive and had been handed to a new generation of children.  The last Halloween she sent me a note to tell me that she was grounded due to being unwell. I meant to but I am not good at saying goodbye and I never saw her again.

I noticed a few years ago that the house came up for sale once more. It had been 'developed' by someone and all of the charm hidden behind the persistent trend for black and white kitchens, knocked through rooms, endless white and parking spaces.  The photographs sadddened me.

all white and neat now

a reminder of the once leaded glass windows

One of the ornate fireplaces survived the modernisation

I often think of June when I see little enchanting things and know that she would like them. In our village I am The Witch. I dress our cottage with pumpkins, spiders, bats and lanterns for the small ones who make their way to our door. Each year there are more and I find June's pointy toed boots a hard act to follow, but I will try.

 

I suspect that every now and then I will go past the house where The Witch and The Word Wizard lived two doors down. Just to check on it. Maybe one day it will transform itself back to how it once was, how I remember it. Like this.