Saturday 10 September 2022--Win and I planned two nights in Trondheim in 2004. A travel snafu left us stranded in Amsterdam, and we arrived in Norway late on what should have been our second night. We saw what we could of the town in the few hours we had the next morning, but Nidarosdomen, Trondheim's cathedral, wouldn't open until after we left. It is thus the one thing I have in mind to see today. I arrive to find a long line waiting outside, and for a few minutes I think I'm going to have to blow it off--I just can't abide waiting in lines. But the doors open--they're late, for some reason--and the queue starts moving. I go into the adjacent café for coffee, and by the time I'm done, the line has cleared.

The cathedral had its origins in a church built in 1070 over the tomb of King Olav II, later venerated as patron saint of Norway. Construction of the full cathedral was completed around 1300. It suffered a series of fires (shockingly common in Trondheim's history), the nave falling into ruin in 1531, with further catastrophic fires in 1708 and 1719. A complete restoration was begun in 1869, officially completed in 2001. Nidarosdomen has been a Lutheran cathedral since 1537, during the Reformation.

The Archbishop's Palace, next door, houses a museum which displays, among other things, some of the medieval statuary from the early cathedral; models of the cathedral and palace through their histories; and the Norwegian royal regalia. Norwegian kings were traditionally crowned in Nidarosdomen in the old days; but Norway was part of a union, either with Denmark, Sweden, or both, for most of the period from 1319 to 1905. When it regained independence in the early 20th century, the crown was offered to Prince Carl of Denmark, in part because he was descended from medieval Norwegian royalty. He accepted on the condition that a plebiscite be held to determine whether Norwegians actually wanted a monarchy, or a republic instead. 79% voted for monarchy. I find it very interesting that Carl, destined for junior royalty in Denmark, took his new role very seriously. He assumed the old Norse name Haakon, which resonated with his new subjects, and devoted himself to the greater good of Norway. A coronation ceremony was held for King Haakon VII and Queen Maud (like Carl, a grandchild of Queen Victoria) on 22 June 1906. It was the last coronation in Norway; in keeping with a more down-to-earth model for the monarchy, Haakon's son and grandson underwent a royal benediction instead. The crowns and other regalia were put away. They're now here in the museum. An attendant pokes his head into the room where I am photographing them, and tells me that photography is not permitted. Too late, heh heh. I always photograph in silent mode, with no flash, shutter noise, or bleeps and bloops, which helps me to fly under the radar, often enough.

The Norwegian constitution gives executive power to the king, but Haakon was careful (as have been his successors) to leave the business of governance to the parliament (once famously saying, "I am also the King of the Communists"). The only time he took what might be considered a political stand was in the early days of the Nazi occupation in World War II, when Germany pressured him to cease resistance, and appoint the collaborator Vidkun Quisling prime minister. Haakon relayed the demand to the cabinet, telling them it was the government's decision, but he would abdicate rather than appoint Quisling. The cabinet likewise refused the Nazi demands, and went into exile in the UK. Haakon made radio broadcasts from England during the war, fuelling the resistance.

I cross Elgeseter Bridge to the south, thinking to have a pint at Daglighallen, the brewpub in the student union. It won't open until later in the afternoon, though, so I walk along the far side of Nidelva toward Bakklandet, and have my pint at Den Gode Nabo. Then it's back to the hotel for, well, you know. Later, I find Trondhjem Mikrobryggeri for dinner. Win and I managed a quick beer here in 2004 when we arrived late in the evening. I'm a bit disappointed with it now; it seems an out-of-date model of a brewpub, a brick-and-fern restaurant that does neither food nor beer particularly well. Nightcap at Macbeth.