Every travel narrative should aspire to have one sublime moment, a moment when the traveller encounters something so beautiful – so vast and profound – that they are overwhelmed by the experience. The spirit soars and the mind boggles. Seeking such moments is the whole point of travel.
I admit that I was utterly cynical about Schloss Neuschwanstein. Built by the mad King Ludwig II, it has served little historical significance except as a drawcard for tourists and Disney fans. I’ve seen so many photos of it – in Spring, Summer, or Winter – that I didn’t think I could be impressed. I’m always wary of such obvious tourist traps. It’s just a castle, right?
We started the day by catching the cable car to the top of Tegelberg, a nearby mountain that serves as a launching point for hang-gliders. After a furious (yet obligatory) snowball fight, we spent some time admiring the view. The snow-draped Alps stretched to the horizon, under a blue sky that was a checkerboard of contrails.
We descended Tegelberg and went on to Schloss Neuschwanstein. It was only as we got closer that I realised the position it commands. It straddles a hill in front of the mountains, so that no matter where you view it from – the mountains or the valley – it’s framed against a spectacular backdrop. And as we walked up to the door of the castle, I could no longer deny that I was captivated. Here was a unique piece of architecture – a kind of fairy-tale gothic – surrounded by the sublime majesty of the Bavarian Alps. Snowy peaks rise above it, a river cuts a deep gorge alongside it. I was converted.
The best views of the castle are from the nearby bridge, Marienbrücke. It was thick with tourists – the clicks of camera shutters could be heard long before we reached the bridge. And it was a battle to push through the crowd. I’m pretty sure I’m lurking in the background of a dozen photos.
We climbed a little higher than the bridge and, ignoring the numerous danger signs, emerged onto a precarious ledge that overlooked the castle. It was the best view yet, and we clung to the tree roots as we leaned over the edge. Here was the sublime in its purest form – a stunning mountain panorama, with the Alps rising high above us, coupled with the danger of falling to our deaths. I felt like a character in an Ann Radcliffe novel.
A hike along the river finished the afternoon. A hike in the Bavarian Alps on a sunny afternoon, with the last of the Winter’s snow still melting on the ground. Our trip has been so focused on history – on the two wars that have ripped this country apart – that it was good to finally appreciate the scenery.
It’s an odd feeling you get burning away in your belly; when you leave the world you know behind and when you return you won’t quite be the same person who left.
In just under a month Andrew and I will stand in the place where thousands of our countrymen lost their lives and the notion of Australian nationhood was born. But what is Australian nationhood and what is the ANZAC spirit?
It is a beautiful mythology, our very own Iliad. Young men and women called to serve an empire only to find who they truly were in the heat of battle. They held on against insurmountable odds against an enemy defending its homeland. And in the face of enmity they created a special bond with the men in the trenches opposite. They saw themselves through the hardships with laughter and mate ship. Then when it came to retreating our very own Odysseus, Lt. Col. Charles Brundell White hatched a plan truly worthy of Trojan horse fame and not one man was lost.
It’s the stuff of glorious paintings, plays, movies and legend. It’s quite a daunting thought to think that we will forever be a part of that mythology, in the smallest of ways as we remember those who fell in a foreign land.
But before all that… Berlin, Munich, Berchtesgaden, Salzburg. There will be drinking and carousing and many many museums.
Yesterday, we left Berlin behind us. It was a sad leaving as it seems to be a city that can crawl under your skin and beg you to stay. I read a quote from the Dali Llama that said
We can let the circumstances of our life harden us, so we become increasingly resentful and afraid. Or we can choose to let them soften us, so we become kinder …
It seems Berlin chose the latter of these two options. The people of the city are exceedingly polite and tolerant. Perhaps it’s because they purge themselves through art? Everywhere you look in Berlin, people’s voices are being heard, even if it is in the uninteresting scrawl of graffiti adorning a train carriage that you pass by, it’s still there and for some reason so permissible.
This is the way the city chooses to engage with the horrors of its own past, it turns them into art.
The East side gallery, a poignant expression of division and reconciliation.
You can’t help but be overawed by the way Berlin uses art to express and heal its wounds. They have the truth of art itself, as a medicine and a hammer with which one can affect change. This is of course one of the central lessons of my great theatrical idol and it seems only appropriate to me now that this is the city in which he would choose to create his theatre and leave behind his legacy.
Brecht and I out the front of his Berliner Ensemble
Dem Deutsches Volk, “The German People”, simplicity itself adorns the German parliament. A glorious reminder that in a true democracy the people are governed by the people and for the people. It seems to sit there as an almost ironic statement given the division the city has passed through over the last 100 years or perhaps it is a very timely reminder of those words from Primo Levi:
“It happened, therefore it can happen again: this is the core of what we have to say. It can happen, and it can happen everywhere.”
At the end of the day Berlin and Germany makes me think a lot about Australia. At the moment there is a very strong, very nationalistic ideal amongst many Australians. To be fair it has always been there, but perhaps a little obscured or glanced over. In the 30’s there were race riots in Kalgoorlie, the Italian population was sent packing into the desert, we had instances on the gold fields of white prospectors scalping Chinese immigrants and we as a nation still struggle to find reconciliation with the treatment of indigenous peoples. And now we also have a media blackout on the fate of people who come to Australia seeking asylum, what is worse is we are taking those people and subjecting them to the terror of detention centres; men, women and children.
It all catalysed for me as Andrew and I visited the very solemn grey concrete rectangles of the holocaust memorial. Soaring above you and always at a slightly different angle, they reminded me of the irrationality of persecution, but being laid out in a grid it spoke of the regularity with which it happens. Again here is an artwork that invites you to engage with it, to play an active part in remembrance.
I found myself questioning when we may have to erect such memorials of our own. To remind ourselves that our past as a nation is bloody and fraught with injustices, but that knowing our past we as a nation can come together and seek a brighter future.
So, where does this all fit in along the Road to Gallipoli? Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer to that yet. It’d be nice to tie it off with a little bow, but there’s still a long way to go.
Memory plays an important role in Berlin. It serves a dual purpose: to remind us of the past, and to prevent that past from happening again. It is embedded in the foundations of the city, where brand new bars and cafés exist alongside buildings that have survived two world wars. Monuments and memorials are scattered across the skyline. And on the streets, a double line of bricks mark where a wall once divided the world.
We arrived in Berlin on Wednesday night, amidst a freezing torrent of snow and rain, dazed and exhausted after the long flight from Perth. Berlin was our first stop on our long journey to Gallipoli, and it seemed like an appropriate choice.
Berlin occupies a unique position in the history of the twentieth century. No other city helped to shape the events of that century – and was subsequently shaped by the events – than Berlin. It was here in the heartland of Europe that the feuds and alliances that inflamed the First World War were formed. And it was here, in the decade after that war, as Germany struggled to repay its debt, that the foundations of the next war were also laid. Berlin still bears the scars of the Nazi occupation of Germany – in many ways, it defines what the city has become. For almost thirty years, between 1961 and 1989, Berlin was the physical manifestation of the divide between East and West, as the two sides faced each other, sabres rattling, over the wall. And when that wall came down and Germany was reunified, Berlin was finally able to achieve the prosperity that it long deserved.
As students of history, it was easy for Garreth and I to lose ourselves in the past of Berlin. The Brandenburg Gate. The Reichstag building. Checkpoint Charlie. The Holocaust Memorial. The East Side Gallery. Everywhere we looked, history was beckoning. And since the reason for our trip is indelibly linked with that history, we felt an obligation to explore these sights and contextualise those events. Gallipoli is still far away, but the reason why Australia went to war can be traced right here to Berlin.
There’s no escaping Berlin’s past. It follows you around whether you want it to or not. It’s the big things – the imposing stretch of the East Side Gallery, or the field of rectangular monoliths of the Holocaust Memorial. But it’s also the small things. Shrapnel damage to statues. Old facades showing through fresh paint. Those eastern industrial districts that still don’t have the affluence of the former West.
But after a few days, the sheer number of memorials and museums we had visited began to blur into one. We were always looking into the past, always seeing Berlin through the lens of history, rather than focusing on the city that currently stands. I am reminded of a city from Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities, one that is always looking backwards, never forwards, one that is entrenched so deeply in its own history that the present has ceased to have meaning.
It was with great effort that we pulled ourselves away from the tourist traps and tried to seek out Berlin of today. It wasn’t hard to find. It was visible in the back streets of Friedrichshain, where a blooming art movement has sprung up around the host of small bars and clubs. It was visible in the enormous number of cranes that dotted the horizon, the number of streets that had been cut open to lay new U-Bahn tracks. And it was visible in the people we saw – the smiling football fans on the train, the bartender at the Easter Markets.
Perhaps that’s the greatest thing about this city – no matter how dark the past, new memories are being made every day. And it this wild melange of old and new that shapes Berlin for a new century.
The main event of the Albany Anzac weekend took place on Saturday, 1 November, when naval ships from Australia, New Zealand, and Japan departed from King George Sound in a symbolic reenactment of the first convoy. It was something which I’d been excited about for months. And we were in a good position to watch it unfold. We were staying in a small cottage that abutted the sand dunes of King George Sound, near Emu Point. In a moment of foresight that is completely out of character, my father had realized this was going to be a popular event and booked accommodation 18 months in advance. Thanks, Dad.
After the celebrations of the previous night, it was nice to be able to relax on Saturday morning. It was a warm day in Albany – one of the first sunny days of the season. Garreth, Adam, and I walked down to the beach and, on a whim, went for a swim. The beach was deserted – nothing but golden sand and the cold waves of the Southern Ocean lapping at our feet. We plunged into the waves, letting out a string of swear words at the frigid Antarctic water. The fleet of warships were anchored in the middle of the harbour, only a few hundred metres away. It was an strangely jarring sight. Their steely grey hulls and angular shapes were a stark contrast to the rolling hills and cliffs of the harbour. They didn’t belong there. They seem ominous, predatory, watching over us while we played in the waves. I didn’t know whether to be comforted by their presence or intimidated by their sheer power. It was sobering to realize that each one of those ships had more firepower than the combined escorts of the first Anzac convoy. I wondered what my grandfather would’ve thought of these sullen grey behemoths.
We drove into town and joined a Commemorative Service in the late morning, where the Prime Ministers of both Australia and New Zealand gave a speech about the departure of the Anzac Convoy. It was, thankfully, an event that focused less on political point scoring and more on simply remembering the sacrifices of the soldiers. Sitting on the grass in the morning sunshine, as the gulls flapped overhead, we seemed so far removed from the horror of the war. It was too much of an abstract concept, something too dark for a day like this.
Finally, it was time for the ships to depart. We drove back to Emu Point and climbed to the top of the sand dunes. My parents were already waiting for us in a small gazebo that commanded a superb view over the Sound. The tranquility of our morning swim had been completely shattered. The warships were charging around the harbour, surrounded by a flotilla of boats and yachts. Every boat owner in Albany must have been out there. Helicopters hovered overhead, and the wind carried the cheers of the crowd from around the peninsula. We could see the four Royal Australian Navy warships: HMAS Anzac, HMAS Arunta, HMAS Stuart, HMAS Sirius, and the sleek black conning tower of the submarine, HMAS Rankin. They were joined by the New Zealand ship HMNZS Te Kaha, and JDS Kirisame from Japan.
As we watched, the ships circled around the harbour and headed towards the open sea. It was a poignant moment, seeing their blocky forms against the headland, sea churning in their wake. The sight united us across a century. The first Australians going to war. And their descendants, here today, honouring their memory.
For the Anzac convoy, the voyage to Egypt was a tedious routine punctuated with moments of excitement. Just 9 days after leaving Albany, the HMAS Sydney detached from the convoy and defeated the German cruiser Emden in the Battle of Cocos. A few days earlier, news had reached the convoy that the Ottoman Empire had joined the war. None of the soldiers had any clue that they would end up being deployed on the shores of Turkey.
On 1 November 1915, the soldiers of the first Anzac convoy departed from King George Sound in Albany, Western Australia. It was a spectacular sight – 38 convoy ships carving through the gentle swell, smoke and steam rising into the grey dawn. Their decks were lined with 20,758 Australians and 8,427 New Zealanders. In the cargo holds were 11,294 horses, as well as a few examples of native Australian fauna that soldiers had smuggled aboard. There was some anxiety amongst the soldiers; the German cruiser Emden had been attacking shipping in the Indian Ocean, and the slow ships of the convoy were prime targets. But they were well-protected. At the head of the convoy was the HMS Minotaur, once the flagship of the Royal Navy’s China Station. The cruisers Sydney and Melbourne, stalwarts of the Australian Navy, joined the formation as they left the harbor. They would soon be joined by IMS Ibuki, the Japanese battlecruiser that had been hunting for the Emden. Together, they began their journey into the west.
Aboard the HMAT Geelong, William Henry Cameron – my grandfather – was enthralled by the sheer display of naval power. He was fascinated by ships, and these magnificent behemoths which sliced through the waves captured his imagination. He wrote in his diary, “Left Albany. Most beautifull [sic] sight. 42 vessels in 3 rows. New Zeal at rear. HMAS Sydney is off our starboard side + looks lovely.” For many of the men aboard, as the coastline became lost below the hazy horizon, it would be the last time they would see their home country.
Given its significance in the Anzac legend, Garreth and I were thrilled to visit Albany in November last year to commemorate 100 years since the departure of the convoy. It was a good excuse for a weekend away. We loaded the car with a few cartons of beer and enough meat to feed the entire town. We were accompanied for the weekend by our mate Adam, who is great to keep around because he keeps Garreth and I out of trouble. Well, sometimes. We left Perth on Friday morning, 31 October, escaping the metro area before traffic congested the roads.
Albany has long been one of my favourite destinations in Western Australia. It is the small town nestled amongst the hills and harbours of the southern coast, surrounded by rugged cliffs and windswept scrubland. It has a fascinating history as the state’s oldest permanent settlement, and the old whaling station there is a glimpse into our past. But it’s the landscape that really captures my attention. Standing on those rocky cliffs, with the ponderous swell of the Southern Ocean thundering against the rocks, stinging my face with salt spray, it’s not hard to imagine that I’m standing at the edge of the world. No matter what time of the year I visit Albany, my memories are always the same: low scudding clouds, frigid nights, squally thunderstorms, grey seas, and that unforgiving Antarctic gale. And this trip wouldn’t be any different. It has some of the most dramatic scenery in Western Australia – an appropriate backdrop for an occasion of such importance.
On the drive down, we had heard varying estimates of the number of tourists expected to descend on Albany. Twenty thousand. Thirty thousand. Even eighty thousand. So I’d been prepared for a large crowd, but I hadn’t quite expected the town to resemble a festival. Roads had been turned into giant markets, with food and fresh produce available from across the south-west. There was a band playing on a large stage, while a mixture of artists and craftspeople from around Albany plugged their products. The streets were jammed shoulder-to-shoulder with tourists; it was a struggle for our group to stay together. It wasn’t the sleepy little town that I remembered, and I wondered for a moment how the locals had reacted when nearly 30,000 Australian and New Zealand soldiers had flooded their town a century ago. Before long we retreated to the comfort of the pub, where we spent a lazy few hours playing pool and throwing occasional glances out at the Anzac commemorations.
In the evening, we went down to the shore of Princess Royal Harbour, where a light show was being projected onto the side of the Entertainment Centre. It was a freezing night, with the wind from the harbour cutting straight through my winter coat. But the crowd was in high spirits, almost giddy with excitement. The lights flickering across the side of the building slowly transformed from bright Aboriginal paintings to grainy sepia photos of Anzac soldiers marching along the streets of Albany. The town looked so different, so diminished, but now and again I could recognize a few buildings and, lifting my eyes back towards the darkened hillside, I could see them still standing there.
I’d been expecting the weekend to be a solemn occasion, like the somber memorial services I’d attended on Anzac Day. But it felt like a carnival. The audience clapped and cheered as the story unfolded on the building in front of us. I couldn’t stop smiling. There was a sense of shared purpose amongst the audience – we weren’t just there to commemorate the soldiers, but to celebrate their legacy. The Anzac legend is so inextricably linked to Australia’s history that it felt like we were celebrating the birth of the nation itself. Here’s where it had all started. Those soldiers – whose faces were flickering above us in the night – had helped forge our national identity. And they had been standing right here, on this very spot, 100 years earlier, about to embark on the most harrowing and dangerous and thrilling experience of their lives. It wasn’t a time for silence. It was a time to roar and cheer.
It was a surreal experience, knowing that my grandfather had been there 100 years ago. And, as I stood on that freezing shore, I wondered what he had been doing on his last night in Albany. Asleep on the Geelong, most likely, but I wondered if he got the chance to have a final beer at the pub, or a final walk along the beach. His diary entry for that day is typically undescriptive, with only a brief comment about the weather. Did he stand at the railings of the Geelong, studying the twinkling lights of the gathered fleet in the inky darkness of King George Sound? Could he hear the waves pounding against the nearby cliffs? And did he feel the same excitement and trepidation that I felt 100 years later, knowing that he was about to embark on a great adventure?
Several years ago, my parents and I discussed the idea of travelling to Gallipoli. I had just returned from Europe with a broadened perspective of the world, and I couldn’t wait to go travelling again. Gallipoli felt like a logical choice for a family trip. My grandfather had landed there on 25 April 1915, as part of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. We decided to postpone the trip until 2015, when we could commemorate the centenary of Anzac Day. It seemed fitting that exactly one hundred years after my grandfather landed on that beach, amidst bullets and blood, we would be gathered there in respectful silence. Gallipoli would unite us across the generations. So we agreed. But 2015 was still a long way in the future, and Gallipoli was a place that felt more legendary than real. It was a hallowed word, something I associated with heroes and bravery, certainly something that didn’t seem part of this mundane world.
When my grandfather left Australia in 1914, sailing out of Albany aboard the Geelong, I am uncertain if he even knew where Gallipoli was. The Anzac soldiers thought they were bound for the Western Front, where they would join the fight against Germany. Gallipoli was just a small town on a small peninsula in a far away land. It meant nothing to the soldiers aboard those ships. Its importance in Australian history would be determined by the actions that he and his fellow soldiers would take in the months ahead.
In April 2014, my family found out that we were successful in getting tickets to the Anzac Day Dawn Service at Gallipoli on the centenary of the landings. Finally, we would be able to walk in my grandfather’s footsteps. Gallipoli was suddenly real to me – an actual place that I would visit. I would be standing on those same hills that had once been a battlefield for Anzac and Turkish soldiers. Now, with less than three weeks before our departure, it feels incredibly important for me to document the experience. I don’t just want to write about the Anzac Centenary; I want to explore how the Anzac legend has grown in the last century and how it still influences my sense of identity. I want to discover how the world has changed over the last one hundred years. I want to know what it means to be Australian abroad, then and now.
My companion on this trip is Garreth Bradshaw. We have been friends since high school, sharing an avid interest in history and an unhealthy obsession with pop culture. Out of all the adventures we’ve been on over the years (and the numerous misadventures), our trip to Europe is easily the most ambitious, an inevitable result of our friendship. And we’re planning to have a bit of fun. Why not? I tried to convince Garreth to be my amanuensis for this blog, but he insisted on being a co-author. And although it pains me to sully the literary quality of this project, I was forced to agree. But, jokes aside, I am thrilled to have Garreth along for the ride. Keep an eye out for his posts – he has an astute way of seeing to the very heart of matters.
Our trip will take us first to Germany. Garreth is excited to explore the Berlin of Bertolt Brecht and the decadence and sorrow of the 1930s cabaret . I am looking forward to the placid lakes and snow-capped peaks of Berchtesgaden. We are both looking forward to wiling away the hours in a beer hall in Munich. After a brief stopover in Salzburg, we will fly to Istanbul and meet up with my parents. They are thrilled to be part of the journey. None of us have been to Turkey before; the thought of wandering the streets of Istanbul, that immortal city, has excited me for months. We then embark on a tour of the country, visiting places such as Cappadocia, Ephesus, and Troy. Our journey culminates at Gallipoli on April 25th, where we will join thousands of Australians and New Zealanders in commemorating the centenary.
For an Australian, there can be no greater pilgrimage than visiting the rugged hills above that narrow beach.
Gallipoli. That single word – spoken with reverence and pride – has cast a long shadow over the subsequent century. It’s not just a place on the map; it’s not just a moment in history. It forms the background to what it means to be Australian. It is part of our shared cultural identity. We are taught its significance at a young age. I can remember endless Anzac services in school, that solitary bugle calling out in the sweltering assembly halls, the gathered students with downcast eyes, struggling to understand something that was simply beyond our comprehension. How do you explain sacrifice and bravery to a child except in only the most abstract terms? And then there’s the sad realization that many of the soldiers at Gallipoli were only a year or two older than us. It was Australia’s baptism of fire – the first time our fledgling country challenged the rest of the world. And even though it was a terrible military defeat, one that was fought for British Imperialism, we still feel a fierce pride for those fallen diggers. We read tales of their bravery. We tell their stories. We marvel at their exploits. We remember why they fought. Perhaps more than any other event, Gallipoli has shaped, and continues to shape, our national consciousness.
I feel a sense of trepidation in writing about the subject of Gallipoli. It feels like something sacred, a monolithic presence, something beyond the scope of mere words. It is certainly different from my usual writing in the genre of science fiction. But it also feels right. I have a strong personal connection to Gallipoli forged through my grandfather. His diary, photographs, and medals are among my family’s most treasured possessions. I grew up reading his hurried, scrawled words. I have looked at his drawings and studied his photos. And so writing about Gallipoli has a certain sense of inevitability. It has been brooding on the edge of my creative consciousness for years, just out of sight. Perhaps more than anything I’ve written, I feel a sense of a self in these words. I’m looking forward to travelling to those distant places. And I’m looking forward to sharing the experiences ahead.