This interview is part of a series of interviews conducted by emerging voices in BC publishing in conversation with the authors that excite and inspire them. Here, Alyssa Jones speaks with Elspeth Bradbury about her latest nonfiction title published in February 2025.
Elspeth Bradbury is a Scotland-born author living in Vancouver, Canada. Her book, Journeys to the Nearby, is a collection of entries from her travel journal documenting an epic expedition into her own backyard. Through her observations of plants, animals, and the landscape around her, Bradbury invites readers to reconsider what it means to travel and explore. I connected with the author to discuss the relationship between place and memory, and how curiosity about the seemingly ordinary can transform the way we experience home.
Alyssa Jones: In your new book, Journeys to the Nearby, I enjoyed reading about your experience moving from Scotland to Canada and, eventually, forgoing your rainboots to embrace hiking shoes. I am curious to know if there are things that were cultivated from previous homes that you have not parted with, and if there are others (beyond your rainboots) that have fallen by the wayside. What parts of your previous homes have always remained a part of you?
Elspeth Bradbury: Your question is surprisingly relevant. I’m in the middle of a major downsizing as I prepare for another shift in my life. The house began to feel too large and burdensome, but the garden is such a big part of me that I hated to leave it. Imagine how pleased I was when my son and daughter-in-law agreed to move into the upstairs while I would tuck myself into a newly renovated portion of the downstairs! Another journey to the nearby.
Inevitably, living for 36 years in the same place, household ‘stuff’ has accumulated. Rolls of drawings, paints and canvases clutter the attic. Woodworking tools in duplicate, triplicate, jam the basement. Emotional time bombs lurk in filing cabinets and in plastic storage boxes. Sorting is a slog. It’s a relief to discover that I’m not sentimental about most things, not clingy. Hauling bags of clothes to the Salvation Army – no problem. Parting with outdated CDs and vinyl – no regrets. I can even shed books without shedding a tear (sometimes). The things that will stay, that have always stayed as I’ve moved from place to place, are the photos, letters and paintings, the handmade cards, jewels, mugs, stools and tables, knitted scarves and embroidered Christmas ornaments that are imbued with the care and skill of friends and family. They will never “fall by the wayside”.
AJ: It is definitely difficult to part with items that have emotions tied to it. With the amount of care and intention you put into your garden, how have your different homes shaped your various gardens?
EB: When it comes to leaving behind the furnishings of my gardens, I’ve been less decisive, more nostalgic. I’ve attempted to drag the foxgloves of a British childhood through New Brunswick’s brutal winters. I’ve failed to persuade the delphiniums that towered in my grandfather’s garden to withstand a Shetland windstorm or survive in my current slug-happy plot. I’ve yet to convince the sun-loving daylilies, which romped through our East Coast summers, to relish life in a West Coast rain forest. But it’s not for want of trying.
I love to think that our remembered experiences compost down to something rich and fertile—a great resource for creativity!
AJ: Your observations of nature often connect with personal memories or past experiences. Were you ever surprised at the memories which came up while writing, or was your focus on remaining in the moment? Has writing this book changed the way that you engage with your garden?
EB: The connections didn’t happen intentionally. Don’t we all react to new experiences by comparing them first with old ones? And yes, some of the reawakened memories surprised me with their sensuality—the sounds and touch, but particularly the smells. I love to think that our remembered experiences compost down to something rich and fertile—a great resource for creativity!
Writing the book changed my relationship with this plot of land more than I ever expected or hoped. I control it less and live more as a part of it.
AJ: Each chapter of your book encompasses a “garden journey,” an entry in your travel journal from your expeditions around and amongst your extensive gardens. Did you write freely after your time outdoors, or did you follow certain routines, questions, or rhythms that guided your reflections?
EB: I have folders full of scribbled jottings that I’ve made along with the journeys. Other folders contain scraps of ‘brainwaves’ and nuggets of information from books or the internet. These gradually clump themselves together to form the fleshed-out reports. My writing process wouldn’t cut it in a course on journalism or creative writing. I have the huge privilege of time and can afford to edit as I go. I squeeze and prod and bully every word, every phrase until it smartens up. Then I set the piece aside to stew for days or months before I have at it again. And again. The pace is pathetic, but I find the process weirdly enjoyable and addictive.
AJ: I’m curious about the book’s illustrations. You incorporate beautiful drawings of the plants, animals, and objects related to each chapter. You truly capture the life and breath of your garden and its inhabitants, giving us a window into your inspirations. Did your illustrations develop alongside your writing, or were they added later in the process?
EB: I can’t seem to separate text from illustrations. The writing begins, and the drawings chime in. I suppose I’m always trying to round out my topic—to express my ideas and engage in conversations as fully as possible. In 2020, I added poetry and a verbal presentation along with a touch of music to a local exhibition of my paintings. (Samples of this Wild Life show appear on my Instagram.)
AJ: Are there limits to what writing can explore?
EB: There will be limits however hard we push them. For instance, Virginia Woolf put a name to Moments of Being but even she failed to induce the sensation itself.
AJ: Were there friends, family, and/or other writers you shared your progress with as you went along?
EB: I have no writing community nowadays, but I read. A lot. I can’t remember why I emailed some of my first stories to some close friends and family members. They suggested I share with others, which I did until my daughter persuaded me to post them on Substack instead of overloading my email. Feedback from the platform was fun and encouraging, but I prefer the heft of a book, so I approached a few publishers.
It’s indefinable and indirect—a lifetime’s worth of mingled experiences and relationships with both people and places.
AJ: The writing world is wonderful in the ways it connects. It reminds me of your chapter describing research from a university in the Netherlands that studied the root systems of certain species. Many species have a vast root system which often cannot be untangled. The roots are necessary for the survival of the plant, and the web of roots connects individual plants to each other, allowing for resource sharing and communication between plants. To me, this is a beautiful metaphor for the interconnectedness of community. There are often very few degrees of separation between individual plants and the greater ecosystem, much like the community of writers. Are there particular writers, artists or life experiences that have influenced or shaped your writing ecosystem? How does the natural world shape your experience as a “creative community”? Are there other ways in which you see writing or the writing community as mirrors of the natural world?
EB: I was lucky enough to live for 20 years in New Brunswick at a time of creative ferment there. This unpretentious rural province was a hot bed of writers, sculptors, painters, potters, weavers—you name it!—a remarkable ecosystem, although I’d never thought of it as such until you sent me this apt metaphor. Thank you. The trusted friendships of that time were invaluable and stay with me. But in case we get carried away by visions of unremitting niceness in nature’s underground web, it’s probably a good idea to check out allelopathy!
AJ: Allelopathy refers to plants indirectly affecting other plants nearby through the toxins they emit into the environment. Thinking about interconnected roots versus allelopathy, do you connect more with this idea of being influenced by your (creative) environment indirectly rather than by direct root entanglement?
EB: I have to say that for me it’s indefinable and indirect—a lifetime’s worth of mingled experiences and relationships with both people and places.
AJ: What I loved most about your book was that you made travel accessible to anyone. Regardless of age, able-bodiedness, location, etc, you have encouraged your readers to stay curious about the world around them. As this book is your very own travel journal, did you find your wanderlust sated through this experience?
EB: After fifteen days of rain in February I may yearn for a trip to the tropics, but an early daffodil and a lively encounter with a squirrel can usually set me straight. Long-distance travel by air can be life enhancing, but it’s time we thought of it as a rare privilege and not as a pastime, an entertainment, or an assumed right. I’ll stop before I get preachy. I take to heart the well-worn advice to writers, “Don’t tell me, show me!”, which explains the genesis of Journeys to the Nearby.
AJ: What advice do you have for the aspiring nature writer?
EB: Nature writing nowadays falls into two categories. With a plethora of information literally at our fingertips, the author must either organize and present it in such a way as to make it accessible, or the content must be firsthand and unique. An Immense World by Ed Yong is an example of the former and The Serviceberry by Robin Wall Kimmerer an example of the latter. I’d like to think that Journeys to the Nearby is equally personal.
With a career in architecture and landscape architecture, Elspeth Bradbury has also spent much of her life as a writer, a painter and a gardener. She is the co-author of The Real Garden Road Trip, The Garden Letters and the poetry collection Is That You This Is Me. For more than a decade she has volunteered at VanDusen Botanical Gardens as a Master Gardener and a Garden Guide, taught continuing education classes, and made presentations to garden clubs. She has contributed illustrated articles to gardening magazines including Horticulture, Fine Gardening, Canadian Gardening, Gardens West, Harrowsmith and Atlantic Advocate. She has written and illustrated columns for The Beacon and in 2019 the Ferry Building Gallery presented WILD LIFE, a solo exhibition of her paintings and poetry.
Alyssa Jones is a creative writing undergraduate student at the University of the Fraser Valley. Her writing has appeared in the literary magazine, Louden Singletree, and she lives in Abbotsford, British Columbia with her husband.