Australian War Memorial

Stand at the foot of the steps and listen for a moment. Behind you, a long, wide avenue runs downhill toward the lake. Ahead of you, the sandstone building sits low against the slope of Mount Ainslie, its copper dome turned soft green by the weather. Magpies call from the gum trees. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus. This is the Australian War Memorial. It is a museum, a shrine and an archive at once.

The idea began in the mud of the Western Front. Charles Bean was Australia's official war correspondent during the First World War. He saw young men die in places most Australians would never visit. He believed the nation needed one place to remember them, and to keep the record of what they had done. After the war, he spent years pushing for it. His vision shaped almost everything you will see inside.

The road to opening was slow. A design competition in the 1920s produced no clear winner. Two entrants, Emil Sodersten and John Crust, were asked to combine their ideas into one plan. Then the Great Depression stalled the money. By the time the Memorial opened, on Remembrance Day in 1941, Australia was already fighting a second world war. A building meant to honour one generation's war now had to make room for another.

Now turn around and look back down the slope. That broad avenue is Anzac Parade. It runs in a straight line to Lake Burley Griffin, and on the far shore you can see Parliament House. This alignment is deliberate. The city's planners placed the nation's memory of war and the nation's seat of government on a single axis. Here is a quiet surprise: from Parliament, the politicians look straight back at this building.

Walk up into the Commemorative Courtyard. In the centre lies the Pool of Reflection, a long, still rectangle of water. At its head, an eternal flame burns. The cloisters on either side hold the Roll of Honour, long bronze panels carrying the names of Australians who died in war. There are more than one hundred thousand names. There are no ranks on these panels. A private and a general receive exactly the same space.

Look closely at the bronze. You will see small red paper poppies pushed into the gaps beside individual names. Nobody planned this custom. It grew on its own, one visitor at a time. Families come looking for a grandfather, a great-uncle, a cousin they never met. They find the name, they touch the cold metal, and they leave a flower. The red poppy comes from the fields of Flanders, where they grew over the battlefields.

At the far end of the courtyard rises the Hall of Memory, under that green dome. Step inside, and the light changes. The interior glows with mosaic — millions of small glass tiles in gold, blue and deep red. Four towering figures stand in the walls, representing a soldier, a sailor, a servicewoman and an airman. Above them, the dome shimmers. The effect is calm and slightly unearthly, like the inside of an old Byzantine church.

The artist behind this mosaic was Napier Waller. He also designed the tall stained-glass windows in the Hall. Here is something many visitors never learn. Waller served in the First World War and lost his right arm at Bullecourt in France. He had been right-handed. He taught himself to work with his left hand, and he went on to create this enormous work. The hand that made these walls belonged to a wounded veteran.

In the centre of the Hall lies the Tomb of the Unknown Australian Soldier. In 1993, the remains of an unidentified soldier were brought home from a war cemetery in France. Nobody knows his name, his age or his town. That is the point. He stands for every Australian who died and was never identified. At his funeral, Prime Minister Paul Keating gave a short eulogy. Many Australians still regard it as one of the finest speeches in the country's history.

Beyond the commemorative heart, the galleries begin. Bean wanted ordinary people to understand war, so the Memorial commissioned large dioramas — miniature battlefields built with painted backdrops and tiny figures. Some of these date back to the Memorial's early decades. They are quieter than modern screens, but they reward a slow look. Nearby, real objects carry their own weight: uniforms, letters, medals and the personal belongings of people who did not come home.

The large technology galleries hold aircraft, vehicles and weapons. One of the best known is a Lancaster bomber called G for George, flown by an Australian squadron during the Second World War. Standing beneath its wings, you get a sense of how cramped and exposed its crews were. The Memorial has been expanding in recent years, so some galleries may look different from earlier visits. Check what is open when you arrive.

If you stay until the end of the day, you can join the Last Post Ceremony in the Commemorative Courtyard. Each ceremony tells the story of one person named on the Roll of Honour. A piper plays a lament. Visitors lay wreaths. Then a bugler sounds the Last Post, the traditional call that marks the end of a soldier's day. The ceremony is short and simple. For many visitors, it becomes the moment they remember most.

The grounds outside are worth a slow walk too. The Sculpture Garden holds memorials to particular units and campaigns, set among native trees and lawns. Kangaroos sometimes graze on the slopes of Mount Ainslie just above. Find a bench, sit for a while, and watch the light move across the sandstone. The building changes colour through the day — pale and cool in the morning, warm and honey-coloured in the late afternoon.

Before you leave, stand once more at the top of the steps. Look down Anzac Parade toward the lake and the flag above Parliament House. Listen to the birds, the wind in the gums, the low voices of other visitors. Behind you are the names, the poppies and the quiet tomb. Ahead of you is the living city. The Memorial was built to sit exactly between the two... and to keep them in sight of each other.