Okay. So the box with the Dutch oven in it is still in the hallway, because the box with the Dutch oven in it is always in the hallway.
You've been unpacking for three days, Corn.
I've been unpacking at a considered pace. There's a difference. And it's Friday, which means I've now got a hard deadline on the whole project, so I'm thinking about Fridays. Which is convenient, because Daniel is too.
Of course he is.
Daniel's question this week is one I like a lot. He says his interest was never really in the kings and the prophets and the wars. It's the mundane. What did ordinary people actually do all day, and how different were their routines from ours. So he wants to spend a Friday in biblical Jerusalem. Not as a priest, not a royal official, not anybody important, and by his own admission not especially devout. Just a person earning a living and keeping a household together, trying to get through the week. Seventh century BCE, late First Temple period, before the Babylonian destruction. And he knows he wouldn't be living where he lives now, because the city was much smaller back then, down on the City of David and spilling onto the Western Hill by the eighth century.
He's done his homework on the geography.
He's done his homework on everything. He wants it as an exercise in historical imagination, grounded in the archaeology, and what he's really after is the incidental detail. The sounds coming through the walls. The smell of the cooking fires. What the streets were like underfoot. The little frustrations and interruptions that make up an ordinary day. And the punchline he's chasing is the one I want to chase too. Which parts of a modern Friday here would actually be familiar to someone from twenty-seven hundred years ago, and which parts would be completely unrecognizable.
That's the right question, and it's got a surprising answer at the end of it. But there's a hurdle before we can even start, and I want to say it out loud at the top.
The hurdle.
We're reconstructing a day almost nobody wrote down. The people who left us texts were the ones with something to say to God or to a king. The person Daniel wants to be didn't leave a diary, didn't get a tomb inscription, and doesn't show up in the royal correspondence except as a number. Everything we know about his day we know from his garbage, his floor, and his toilet. That's the honest position, and I think we should state it before we start building anything.
Agreed, and it's not a weakness of the episode, it's the whole texture of it. So here's the ground rule we'll hold to. Where there's a dig, we say what came out of it. Where there's an inscription, we quote it. Where it's a plausible reconstruction, we say so on air. And where we simply don't know, we don't fill the gap.
And one more, which Daniel flagged himself and I want to underline, because it's the single easiest mistake in this whole subject. We do not take modern Orthodox practice, or rabbinic law from the Mishnah and Talmud, and slide it back seven centuries. Whatever First Temple Shabbat looked like, it did not come with a rulebook that hadn't been written.
So let's start by waking up. And the first thing you notice is not the architecture. It's the grinding.
Right, so before we get to the stone, let me put us inside the house, because the house is the container for the whole morning. The standard dwelling in Iron Age Judah is what archaeologists call the four-room house, or the pillared house. It's the default form from Iron Age One, say the late eleventh century BCE, all the way down to the exile. The ideal plan is three parallel long spaces running the length of the building, with a broad room across the back. Often one of the long rooms gets subdivided, and sometimes there's an unroofed courtyard in the mix. The early examples measured ten to twelve meters long by eight to ten wide, walls about a meter thick of fieldstone, floors of beaten earth with flagstone in patches.
A meter thick.
A meter thick, and that matters more than it sounds, because it means the house is cool in the afternoon and it means you do not hear everything through it. Which cuts against the modern apartment assumption a bit.
So Daniel imagining sounds through the walls, that's partly right and partly a modern projection.
Partly right, because you'd hear your neighbors through the courtyard and the doorway and over the roof. Not through a meter of fieldstone.
And the specific house we're going to live in for the morning is the House of Ahiel.
It's the best one we've got. Excavated in Area G of the City of David in 1978 by Yigal Shiloh. It's a four-room house, roughly eight by eight meters, and it's the most complete ordinary home we have from the Jerusalem that fell to Babylon in 586. It's got rows of monolithic pillars, an external staircase going up to a roof or an upper floor, storage rooms full of jars, and a carved limestone toilet seat sitting over a cesspit. Two inked sherds found in it carry the name Ahiel, which is how it got its name.
So we know the man's name, or at least a man connected to the house.
We know a name that was written on a potsherd in the building. That's the level of certainty. It's a very good name to have and it's not a biography.
The house has two floors, then.
Ground floor mostly stable and storage, living quarters above. That's the pattern for the period, and it's worth holding onto, because it changes what unpacking the house would even mean. Your storage is downstairs with the animals and your beds are upstairs in the smoke.
Now. The grinding.
Now the grinding. Bread is the staple, and I mean the staple in the strongest sense. The Hebrew word lechem means bread and it also means food, the same word for both, which tells you the whole story of the diet. Grain does not arrive as flour. It arrives as grain, and it becomes flour when somebody kneels down at a grinding stone and works it.
Every morning.
This is the first physical labor of the day and it is done by hand, and it is not a small task. A household's daily bread meant a household's daily grinding, and the stone is not a decorative object in a museum case, it's equipment. Two stones, a lower saddle stone and an upper handstone you run back and forth across it, and you do that until you have enough flour, which is a very long time relative to how long the bread lasts.
Daniel asked us specifically not to just say people ground grain by hand. He asked us to make him feel what that meant.
Here's what it meant. It meant your hands were the mill. It meant the sound of it was the first sound of the morning in every house on the street, and the houses are close together, so it wasn't one grinding, it was a texture of grinding. It meant the women doing it spent a serious fraction of their lives at that stone, and it meant that when the grain ran low, the thing you were short of was time and shoulder.
And Cynthia Shafer-Elliott has the line I want to steal here. We all know the phrase our daily bread. She suggests that, given what the archaeology actually shows on the plates, we should refine it.
Our daily bread and stew.
Because the evening meal, the main meal, is nazid. It's a stew. Legumes and vegetables, lentils, peas, chickpeas, broad beans, bitter vetch, plus what grows here, onions and garlic and cucumbers and field greens. Meat is rare. Meat is for a feast or a wedding. The household herd, the sheep and goats, they're not really there for dinner. They're there for wool and milk and dung for the fire.
And I want to be straight with the listeners about the source of that picture, because I think it's moving. That reconstruction comes from combining the texts with what's actually in the pits and on the floors. The stew pot and the bread are what people ate, and the archaeology says so.
The oven. How do we cook this.
The tannur. A beehive-shaped clay oven, roughly a meter high, and the technique is that you light a fire inside, get the clay good and hot, and then you slap the dough onto the interior walls, and you set the pots inside it or on top of it. It's the same principle as a tandoor. And here's the detail I find most human about it. Ovens turn up both inside the main living area, usually near an entryway, and out in courtyards.
Which tells us something about the year.
It tells us people cooked indoors in winter and outdoors in summer. And it tells us that ovens and fuel were shared between households, because you can't each have your own fire going every day in a dense city that burns dung and wood.
So the smell.
So the smell is not a campfire smell. It's baking bread and stew and animal dung burning, all in one narrow street, and you would absolutely know what your neighbor was having for dinner, because you'd smell it before you saw them.
That's the vivid bit I think Daniel's going to like.
And now the part he's not going to like.
Go on.
The House of Ahiel has a limestone toilet seat over a cesspit. And on the seat, and at another Iron Age toilet found at Armon Hanatziv, they recovered parasite eggs.
So we're reconstructing a morning that includes intestinal worms.
We're reconstructing a morning that includes intestinal worms, and I think that's the single most honest detail in this whole episode. Everything about the ancient city, the crowding, the animals in the ground floor, the shared courtyard, the water carried from one spring, all of it points at a population carrying a parasite load we don't think about. The toilet seat survived in the ground, and so did the evidence of what was in the people using it. That's a very rare kind of window.
It's the detail that stops the reconstruction being pretty.
Right. The reconstruction is not pretty. It's smoke and labor and grinding and worms and a house with no chimney and no drains.
And water. Because now you need water and there's one place to get it.
The Gihon Spring, the only source the city has. And this is where the archaeology has actually moved recently in a way I find fascinating. In August last year a team published radiocarbon dating on the dam that created the Siloam Pool, and it comes out around eight hundred BCE. The combined calibrated range is eight oh nine to seven ninety-two, at ninety-five percent confidence. And the point they make is that the dam is not a standalone thing. It's part of one planned project with the Spring Tower and the channel that carries the water, all designed and built together.
Motivated by what.
By climate. The argument is that after about eight fifty BCE the region gets drier, and when it does rain, it rains as flash floods, and a city whose entire water supply is one spring gushing out of the rock on the east side has a real problem with that. So the state builds a dam and a pool and a protected channel.
Which sounds remarkably familiar.
It's a municipal water authority responding to drought. I don't know how else to describe it. Somebody with authority looked at the rainfall record, such as it was, and decided the city needed a reservoir.
And then there's the tunnel.
The Siloam Tunnel. Five hundred and thirty-three meters cut through solid rock, by two teams starting at opposite ends and meeting in the middle, and the connection point is off by about thirty centimeters of height. On five hundred and thirty-three meters. That's a gradient of roughly six hundredths of one percent.
That's within the range of two people shouting at each other through limestone.
Which is more or less how I assume they did it. But I have to flag the dispute, because it's a good one. The tunnel is traditionally Hezekiah's, eighth century. In 2011 Reich and Shukron argued from the associated remains that it's actually late ninth or early eighth century, which would put it before Hezekiah. The radiocarbon work supports the earlier dating for the dam complex. So I hold both as live.
Fine. So the morning so far. You wake in a four-room house on stone floors, you grind grain for a long time, you bake bread in a clay oven, you eat bread and probably a stew, you smell the whole street doing the same thing, and somebody in the household is carrying water up from the Gihon.
And there's a toilet, and there are worms, and the walls are a meter of fieldstone, so you hear your neighbors in the courtyard rather than through the wall.
That's question one answered, and answered with the parts people leave out.
It's the real answer. Daniel asked for inhabited rather than abstract, and the inhabited version has a parasite load.
You've ground the grain, you've eaten, the oven's still warm. Now you step outside, and the city is a different problem.
And here I have to start with a confession, because it's the part of the reconstruction I'm least comfortable with. There is no excavated marketplace in Iron Age Jerusalem.
Say that again.
There's no marketplace that we've dug. Nobody has put a trowel into a courtyard and come up with Iron Age Jerusalem's market square with the stalls still in place. We have no evidence of a specific market day either.
So when Daniel asks us to help him imagine visiting one.
We're reconstructing from inference, and I want that on the table. What we do have is the stuff that flowed through a market. Weights. Trade goods. Imported pottery. And we have the ostraca.
The potsherds.
The potsherds with ink on them. This is the thing I'd put in a museum case ahead of any gold object, honestly. Ostraca are the closest thing we have to ordinary people's own words. They're notes. Complaints. Receipts. Somebody writing something down because they needed the information and couldn't afford a scroll.
And the one that matters most for this episode is the reaper's petition.
The Yavne-Yam ostracon, also called Mesad Hashavyahu. Found in 1960 at a fortress on the coast, the site is dated to somewhere around six thirty to six oh nine BCE, so the reign of Josiah. And it's a petition from a harvest worker. His garment was seized. He's writing to complain about it, and he says he was still harvesting and finishing the grain storage, and the phrase he uses is that he did this as usual before the Sabbath.
As usual.
As usual before the Sabbath. That's the laborer's own phrasing. He's not explaining the Sabbath to anyone. He assumes the official reading the complaint knows what he means by it. It's routine.
That's the first question three evidence, isn't it.
It's the strongest piece of continuity evidence in the whole episode, and we'll come back to it when we get to the Shabbat question properly. For now I just want it in the room as what the working day is organized around.
What else does the city look like at this point. How big is it.
It's growing. In the eighth century the city expands off the ridge onto the Western Hill, which is where you get the broad wall, and that expansion is read as population growth. This is not a village with a spring. This is a capital absorbing people.
And the dense housing.
The 2020 excavation report from the City of David documents three well-preserved Iron Age Two and Two-Three buildings, walls standing up to about two meters high, dated from the eighth century down to five eighty-six. These are townhouses sharing walls, and the way to read them is that the smaller ones sharing a party wall held nuclear families and the larger stand-alone ones were the wealthy.
And there's a spatial argument in the plan itself.
There is, and I love it. Space syntax analysis, which is the study of how rooms connect to each other, suggests the four-room house is laid out with all the rooms opening off a central space, and that this reflects an egalitarian ideology. Contrast it with Canaanite and Phoenician houses of the same period, which are more hierarchical in their internal arrangement. The Judahite house is, in its floor plan, making an argument about who sleeps where and who walks through whose room.
That's a big claim off a floor plan.
It's a claim about the building, and the building clearly has a pattern, and the pattern is really consistent for centuries. What it says about the people in it is interpretation, and I'd hold it that way. But the consistency is real. From Iron Age One to the exile, this is how Judahites built.
Alright. So the working day. Let's do this honestly with the two categories Daniel asked for. Documented, and illustrative.
Documented first. Someone in the city is making things. There are workshops, there's a whole craft economy, there's a temple that consumes goods and a palace that consumes goods, and there are weights and imported pottery showing that a real trade network runs through here. Grain comes in from the countryside. Wine and oil come in from the hill country. The city eats and the countryside feeds it, and there's a road network doing that.
Illustrative second. And Daniel explicitly asked for this and asked us to label it, so let's label it. Our resident, on the way to wherever he works, has a disagreement with a seller about a weight.
Which is a very specific and very plausible disagreement, because the weights are the thing you can check. That's the whole point of a standardized weight. You'd argue about whether the shekel on the scale is the shekel it claims to be.
A neighbor borrows something and does not return it promptly.
An oven, a jar, a donkey. Any of those.
A child interrupts the work.
Constant. The household is the workplace for a large share of what goes on, and children are in the middle of it.
And somebody is trying to finish a task before evening, which is where the reaper's petition comes back, because that's exactly what the man in that ostracon is doing. He's finishing the harvest and the storage before the Sabbath, and while he's doing that, somebody takes his coat.
The petition gives us the whole shape of an ordinary man's worst day. He's working to a deadline that everyone accepts, his outer garment gets confiscated, and he has to write to someone with authority to get it back. And the garment matters more than it sounds, because a cloak is your blanket at night. Losing it isn't an inconvenience, it's losing your bed.
Which is a modern-feeling grievance. The state takes your stuff, you write an indignant letter, you hope somebody reads it.
The medium is the difference. He writes on a piece of broken pot.
What about the streets themselves. The condition of them.
Narrow, unpaved in the main, cut into the slope, and the slope is steep. The City of David is a ridge that drops away on both sides. Walking it is work. Water runs down it when it rains, which is the other half of the climate story, and the drainage is what you'd expect from a city that grew faster than its infrastructure.
And the infrastructure story is the bridge from my day to my city. Because the dam and the pool and the tunnel are the state stepping in.
That's the second-order point I think is worth the whole segment. An ordinary man in this city would not have known or cared about a radiocarbon date. But he would have known that the water now collects in a pool instead of running off, and that the pool is protected by a tower, and that somebody built a tunnel through the rock so the spring could be reached from inside the walls. That's the state doing something that changes his morning. It's the same as a city today rerouting a bus line.
Or putting a lid on a reservoir.
Or the water authority deciding where the pipe goes. It's the least glamorous kind of politics and it's the kind that touches the most people.
So question two, answered with the caveat attached. The working day is real, the market is inferred, and the reason we know it's a working city is the weights and the pottery and the potsherds, not a dig.
And the potsherds are the best part. A complaint about a confiscated coat from twenty-six centuries ago, written by a man who was in a hurry because of the Sabbath. That's a person. That's not a category.
The day is winding down, and this is where the question Daniel actually started from lives. What happens as evening comes.
And this is where I have to be the most careful I've been all episode, because the temptation here is enormous and the evidence is thin.
The temptation being modern Friday.
The temptation being the Friday I actually live in. The shops shutting early, the streets filling with people carrying things, the smell of cooking, the whole city changing gear in the afternoon. And it's a real phenomenon, I live in it. But I cannot put it in Jerusalem in seven hundred BCE, because nothing supports it.
Let's start with what does support it. The ostracon.
The reaper says he was harvesting as usual before the Sabbath. That's a laborer, at a fortress on the coastal plain, in the seventh century, treating the Sabbath as a normal part of the week that he organizes his work around. It is routinely described as the oldest archaeological reference to the Sabbath, which is a big deal.
And its limits.
And its limits are severe. It's one text. It's one man, or one scribe writing for one man. It establishes that in this place and this period, somebody stopped working before the Sabbath and considered that unremarkable. It does not establish that the whole city of Jerusalem did. It does not establish what they did instead. It does not give us a liturgy, a trumpet, a rule, or a mood.
So the honest version is a rhythm without a content.
A rhythm without a content is exactly right. And the scholarship backs that up. Heather McKay's thesis from Glasgow, back in ninety-two, makes the distinction I think is the key to this entire segment. Sabbath observance and Sabbath worship are not synonyms. Observance is rest and inaction. Worship is communal liturgy. One can exist without the other, and in this period, the evidence is for the first and not the second.
Which is a much bigger deal than it sounds, because when people picture the Sabbath they picture the worship.
They picture the synagogue, and the synagogue is centuries away. They picture the trumpet, and the trumpet inscription we have is Herodian.
Explain the trumpet, because that's the trap.
There's a stone from the Second Temple period inscribed to the trumpeting place. The place where a priest stood and blew a trumpet to mark the onset of the Sabbath. It's a real inscription and it's evocative, and the reason I'm bringing it up is that it is a Second Temple object. Herodian. It's roughly six hundred years after our Friday. If you use it to reconstruct the Sabbath of seven hundred BCE, you have taken a thing from the world of the Mishnah and dropped it into the world of the prophet Isaiah, and that's exactly the error Daniel asked us to avoid.
Same problem with Elephantine.
Same problem with Elephantine, and it's a subtler one because Elephantine is ancient and Judean. Fifth century BCE, Achaemenid period, a Jewish garrison community with its own temple, and their documents show people refraining from concluding transactions on the Sabbath. It's real evidence of Sabbath practice and it's still post-exilic. It's after the return from Babylon. It's not our period either.
So what's the shape of the actual scholarly position.
The shape is that regular, identity-defining Sabbath observance, the kind that a whole community organizes itself around and that marks them out from their neighbors, is largely located in the exilic and post-exilic periods. The exile is the crucible. That's where the practice gets codified and becomes the thing that holds a scattered people together.
Which leaves our seventh-century reaper as a slightly awkward data point.
He's a wonderful data point and he's an awkward one. He suggests the practice existed and was normal for at least some people before the exile. He doesn't tell us how many. He might be a devout minority. He might be a majority. He might be one man at one fortress who happened to write it down, and everyone else was less observant, and we'd never know, because people don't write down what they don't do.
And on the other side of it, how religious was the average person.
This is where I want to be very clear that the archaeology is uncomfortable with the word average. There's a real line of scholarship arguing that a lot of ordinary Judeans were practicing something that the prophets were complaining about. Household religion, local shrines, figurines, offerings in the home. The prophetic books are full of complaints about exactly this, and the complaints suggest it was common.
The prophets are not objective observers of the religious scene.
They're not. They're advocates. That's the whole point of a prophet. But advocates don't usually invent the thing they're angry about, so we can read the complaints as evidence that the practice existed, while discounting the tone.
Which brings us to what Daniel really asked. Would the city have changed gear in the afternoon.
On the evidence, no. Not city-wide. Not as an atmosphere. There's no source that shows Jerusalem in seven hundred BCE emptying out and preparing. That's us importing our Friday.
It's the projection Daniel explicitly warned against, and it's the one I'd have made without thinking.
It's the one anyone would make, because it's the city we live in. But you'd have to be honest: whatever Shabbat meant to our man in seven hundred BCE, it did not come with a trumpet, a liturgy, a set of rabbinic rules about what counts as work, or a shared hour at which the city stopped.
So what's the answer to his final question. Familiar versus alien.
The familiar part is the rhythm. Working to finish before a fixed point in the week, and treating that fixed point as simply how the week works. Our reaper does that, and so does everyone in this city today, and that's a genuine thread across twenty-seven hundred years.
And the alien part.
The alien part is everything about what the day actually contained. No liturgy. No communal gathering. No trumpet. No rulebook. And no sense that the whole city was doing it together, because we can't establish that it was. The rhythm is recognizable. The content is somebody else's Friday.
So the reaper and I have one thing in common and share nothing else.
You both stop working before it gets dark. The reasons and the rules are different worlds.
Okay, I have a position on this I've been holding since the ostracon came up, and I want to say it.
I can see you've been holding it.
The reaper did not have a theological argument in his letter. He didn't defend the Sabbath. He didn't explain it. He used it as a schedule. As usual before the Sabbath, which means it was already the fixture on the wall when he wrote. Whatever the practice meant to him, what it meant in that letter was a deadline.
Which is how most people experience most religious practice, honestly.
And I think that's why Daniel's question is a good one. Because if we'd gone looking for the theology we'd have found nothing, and if we go looking for the schedule we find a man with a deadline.
Right.
One thing I want to flag before we get to Hilbert, because I don't want to leave the ostracon doing more work than it can. It appears in a scholarly survey of Judahite Hebrew epigraphy alongside at least one other ostracon that mentions Shabbat. So we do have more than a single flash of the word in the corpus.
Good. So it's two data points, which is better than one and still not a census.
Two data points and a whole lot of silence from everyone who didn't write anything down.
The grinding doesn't stop just because it's a valuable object.
Sorry?
The stones. The pair.
I'm not sure I follow.
A grinding stone is not one stone. It's two, and they have to work together, and that is not the part anyone talks about when they talk about grinding grain, and I have been sitting here for twenty minutes wanting to say it.
Go on then.
The upper handstone and the lower saddle stone are a pair. They wear against each other. They develop a matching surface. If you replace one and not the other, they don't seat, they don't grind evenly, and you end up with flour that's half dust and half grit. A household's stone is a possession you keep for a generation and you keep it together, because a mismatched pair is worse than a worn pair. I have spent an unreasonable amount of time in my life trying to match a pair of stones.
You've spent how long?
Herman.
Corn.
You've spent an unreasonable amount of time matching grinding stones.
I have. Years ago. It's a long story and it ended badly.
Ended how?
There was an arrangement. There was a family, and the family cut stone, and there was an understanding that I would marry into it. And the arrangement did not survive a disagreement about grinding stones.
A disagreement about the stones ended your engagement.
It was the last of several disagreements and it was the one that finished it. They had a pair and I said the pair was wrong and they disagreed, and that was that.
And the stones.
I still have them.
The stones from the engagement.
In my living room. Under the window. They're called Bet and Gimel.
You named them.
They had to be called something.
He's right about the pair, by the way.
You keep saying the grinding is the labor, and it is, but you're describing it like it's a chore. It's not a chore. It's a machine. That's what I came out here to say. A grinding stone is a machine with a maintenance schedule and a matching spec, and the man who owned one knew exactly how it behaved on barley versus how it behaved on wheat, and he knew what it sounded like when it was running dry.
So you agree with Herman.
I agree with the part about the pair. It's the one thing in your whole morning that a man would have opinions about. You grind grain on a stone that's wearing out in a curve that matches the other stone's curve, and you know when it's time, and it's always a bad month to replace it. I had a man who did that for me. He wore down a pair over about eleven years and he could tell by the sound.
That is consistent with what we'd expect, and I want to say on air that the pair matching is plausible but not something the published work establishes. I'd put it in the illustrative bucket rather than the documented one.
I don't know what bucket it's in. I know what it sounds like when it's wrong. I'm not going to defend the rest of his engagement.
Well, that's the sweetest thing you've said to Herman in a while.
Don't read too much into it.
Okay. So where does that leave us on the actual question?
Let me try to land it. The familiar part, and I think this is the real answer to what Daniel was chasing, is the shape of the week. A person in this city, in the seventh century, worked to a weekly deadline that everyone recognized, and finished before a fixed point, and then the week started again. That thread runs unbroken to this afternoon.
And the alien part is everything inside it.
Everything inside it. No trumpet, no liturgy, no rulebook, no communal service, and no city-wide change of gear we can actually document. The reaper is the one surviving voice and he's telling us about a schedule, not a ceremony.
And the part we can't resolve.
And the part we can't resolve is how many people were doing it. That's a open question. One man at a fortress wrote it down. That's what we've got.
The misconception I want to nail down before we go, because it's the one I'd have held at the start of this episode if I hadn't had you here.
Go on.
It's that the Sabbath of the First Temple was basically the Sabbath of today, minus a few details. That there was a trumpet and a liturgy and a rulebook and the whole city stopping at once.
And the correction is that the trumpet we have is Herodian, six hundred years later. The Elephantine documents are post-exilic. The rulebook is rabbinic and centuries away. What we've got for the seventh century is one laborer using the Sabbath as the deadline in his week, and that's it.
The rhythm is the thread. The content is not.
The rhythm is the thread.
One thing before we go, and then we're done.
The next time you're grinding coffee on a Friday afternoon, or unpacking a box you've been avoiding all week, you are doing something a Jerusalemite did twenty-seven hundred years ago. With worse equipment, in worse air, and with considerably more parasites. But doing it.
That's the whole episode in one sentence, and I'm not going to improve on it.
Thanks to Hilbert Flumingtop, who produces this show and who has opinions about stone.
Strong ones.
This has been My Weird Prompts.
If you enjoyed it, leave us a review. It helps people find the show.
And we'll be back soon.
