Daniel sent us this one — he's pointing out something most people miss about Jerusalem. Everyone knows the Western Wall, the big plaza, the notes stuffed between the stones. But technically, the closest accessible point to where the Holy of Holies actually stood isn't that wall at all. It's a much smaller, much quieter section tucked away in the Muslim Quarter called the Little Western Wall. The question is: how do we know it's closer, what's the archaeological evidence, and how much of the wall between these two sites runs underground or through buildings?
This is one of those counterintuitive facts that completely reshapes how you think about a place you thought you understood. I'm Herman Poppleberry, this is my brother Corn, and today we're digging into the Little Western Wall.
Literally, in some cases.
The Little Western Wall — HaKotel HaKatan in Hebrew — is a roughly fifteen-meter stretch of exposed Herodian stone. It sits about two hundred meters north of the main Western Wall plaza, down a narrow alley off Ha-Gai Street, which is the Street of the Chain. And here's the thing that makes it matter: it's physically closer to where the Holy of Holies stood on the Temple Mount than the main prayer plaza is.
Which sounds like one of those tour guide factoids that's either deeply profound or completely made up. So let's establish the geography before we get to the archaeology. The Temple Mount is this enormous platform, roughly thirty-seven acres, built by Herod the Great starting around 20 BCE. The Western Wall isn't a temple wall — it's the retaining wall of that platform. The actual Temple building sat on top of the platform, and the Holy of Holies, the innermost sanctum, was in the western half of that building.
And this is where the Talmudic sources come in. Mishnah Middot, chapter two, describes the Temple Mount's measurements in detail. The Holy of Holies was located twenty-two cubits from the western wall of the Temple building itself. So if you're standing at the Western Wall, your proximity to where the Holy of Holies was depends entirely on which section of that retaining wall you're standing at. The wall runs four hundred eighty-eight meters north to south. Most of it is buried. Only about seventy-five meters are visible above ground across the entire length.
The question becomes: which visible section lines up best with where the Holy of Holies would have been? And that's where the surveys start.
That takes us back to the eighteen sixties and some of the most daring archaeological work ever done in Jerusalem. Charles Wilson and Charles Warren — both British Royal Engineers — conducted the first systematic surveys of the city. Wilson came first, in 1864 to 1865, mapping the Western Wall's full length and identifying the Little Western Wall as a distinct exposed segment. But Warren, who worked from 1867 to 1870, took it to another level entirely.
Warren was the one who dug the shafts, right?
And these weren't gentle excavations. Warren sank vertical shafts — some of them more than twenty meters deep — right down alongside the Temple Mount walls to reach the foundation level. His most famous shaft at the southeast corner hit bedrock at thirty-nine meters below the current street level. Think about that. Thirty-nine meters. That's like digging a ten-story building in reverse, by hand, in the eighteen sixties, while the Ottoman authorities are watching you with deep suspicion and the local population isn't exactly thrilled about a British military engineer tunneling under their homes.
How did he even get permission for that?
Through a combination of diplomatic pressure, funding from the Palestine Exploration Fund, and sheer persistence. The Ottomans gave him limited permits, often revoked them, and he worked in these narrow windows of permission. He also got terribly sick. Warren contracted malaria and nearly died during the survey. He was lowered into shafts filled with centuries of debris and sewage, breathing air that hadn't circulated since the Herodian period. It was archaeology as full-body endurance sport.
The man is dangling in a shaft, feverish, probably dodging cave-ins, and he's mapping the Western Wall's foundation course.
He did it with extraordinary accuracy. He established the foundation methodology of the Herodian builders and mapped the wall's alignment with unprecedented precision. His work confirmed something crucial: the Western Wall is a single, continuous retaining structure. Every section — the main plaza, the tunnels, the Little Western Wall — it's all the same wall. The stones were laid in courses, each course set back slightly from the one below it, creating a subtle batter that distributes the enormous weight of the platform fill. Warren documented this across the entire length he could access.
The physical continuity is settled. But that doesn't tell us which section is closest to the Holy of Holies. For that, you need to know where on the platform the Temple building actually stood.
This is where the modern archaeological reconstructions come in. Leen Ritmeyer, who's probably the leading authority on Temple Mount archaeology, published a reconstruction in 1992 that placed the Holy of Holies thirty-three meters west of the Dome of the Rock's center. His model is based on a combination of the Mishnaic measurements, surviving foundation cuts in the bedrock of the Temple Mount, and the alignment of the Eastern Gate with what would have been the Temple's eastern entrance.
Let's pause on that, because the foundation cuts are worth understanding. What are they, and why do they matter?
The Temple Mount platform isn't perfectly flat bedrock. Herod's builders had to cut into the natural rock to create level surfaces for the Temple building's foundations. These cuts — they're basically trenches carved into the limestone — survive in places even though the Temple itself was destroyed. Ritmeyer identified a series of these cuts on the platform's bedrock that correspond to the dimensions given in the Mishnah for the Temple's outer walls and inner chambers. One particular cut, a rectangular depression in the rock, matches the described location and dimensions of the Holy of Holies almost exactly.
It's not just textual. There's physical evidence carved into the mountain.
And here's the thing about bedrock — you can't fake it, you can't move it, and it doesn't erode quickly. Those cuts have been sitting there for two thousand years, right under the paving stones of the current platform. According to Ritmeyer's model, if you draw a line due west from the Holy of Holies, it intersects the Western Wall almost exactly at the latitude of the Little Western Wall.
The main plaza? Where does that line up?
The main plaza is south of that line. It's still the Western Wall, still the same retaining structure, still holy — but it's not the closest point. The Little Western Wall is about thirty to forty meters closer to the projected location of the Holy of Holies than the prayer plaza is.
Which is a measurement that matters if you care about proximity to sacred space as a literal, physical thing rather than a symbolic one. Most people don't make that distinction. They go to the plaza because that's where you go.
There's a reason for that, which we'll get to. But first, let's talk about what's between these two sites, because the continuum is the most fascinating part of this whole story. The Western Wall is four hundred eighty-eight meters long. The main plaza exposes about sixty meters. The Little Western Wall exposes about fifteen meters. The Western Wall Tunnels, which have been excavated since 1967, expose another three hundred meters running north from the main plaza. That leaves about a hundred thirteen meters that are still buried or built over.
The tunnels get within about eighty meters of the Little Western Wall, right?
And walking through those tunnels is one of the strangest experiences in Jerusalem. You're underground, following the wall northward, and you pass through layers of history stacked like geological strata. You see the Herodian ashlars — these massive limestone blocks, some of them weighing over five hundred tons, with the distinctive margin-and-boss dressing that's the signature of Herodian masonry. You pass the Struthion Pool, which was an open-air reservoir during the Hasmonean period, later vaulted over by Hadrian in the second century. You see a Hasmonean-era aqueduct that was cut right through by Herod's builders when they expanded the platform.
Then you hit Warren's Gate.
Warren's Gate. This is crucial. About fifty meters north of the Little Western Wall, you encounter a blocked arch in the tunnel wall — a four-meter-high Herodian-era entrance that once led directly onto the Temple Mount platform. It was sealed by the Waqf in the twelfth century, and it's been inaccessible ever since. Warren's Gate is actually the closest point of all to where the Holy of Holies stood. It's closer than the Little Western Wall. But it's sealed. You can't pray there. You can't even approach it beyond looking at the blocked arch.
Can we talk about what that arch represents? Because a Herodian-era gate means there was a street here, a major access route onto the platform. This wasn't some service entrance. This was how people got up to the Temple Mount from the western side of the city.
That's one of the great unresolved questions of Jerusalem archaeology. The main approach to the Temple Mount in the Second Temple period was from the south — the Pilgrimage Road, the monumental staircase, the Double and Triple Gates. That's the route we know about. But a city the size of Jerusalem, with the population it had during the pilgrimage festivals — Josephus says there were millions of people in the city during Passover, which is almost certainly an exaggeration, but even a fraction of that is a massive crowd — you'd need multiple access points. Warren's Gate suggests a western approach that we know almost nothing about.
Which is why the sealed Herodian street the IAA found in 2024 is so tantalizing.
We'll get there. But first, we need to finish the geography of what's between the main plaza and the Little Western Wall above ground.
Which is why the Little Western Wall gets the title of closest accessible point. But calling it "accessible" is doing a lot of work. It's down an alley in the Muslim Quarter. It's under Waqf jurisdiction. It's not exactly the main plaza.
Let me paint the picture of what's between the two sites above ground. Between the main plaza and the Little Western Wall, the wall runs beneath and through the Muslim Quarter. There's the fourteenth-century Madrasa al-Ashrafiyya, a Mamluk-era Islamic school built directly against the wall. This is one of the most beautiful buildings in the Old City — intricate stonework, a stunning courtyard, built by Sultan Qaytbay, who was the same Mamluk ruler who built the famous fountain near the Dome of the Rock. The madrasa is literally leaning against the Herodian stones. You've got fifteenth-century Islamic architecture and first-century BCE Jewish engineering sharing a wall.
That's the kind of layering that makes Jerusalem what it is. You can't separate the periods. They're physically attached to each other.
There are also sixteenth-century Ottoman residential buildings. And there was the Moroccan Quarter — the Mughrabi Quarter — which contained a hundred thirty-five buildings packed right up against the Western Wall until June 1967.
Demolished in three days.
The Israeli government cleared the entire quarter to create the main plaza. This is one of those historical facts that sits at the intersection of archaeology, urban planning, and politics, and you can't really separate them. The main plaza exists because a neighborhood was erased. The Little Western Wall exists in its current form because its surrounding neighborhood wasn't.
The people who lived in the Moroccan Quarter — what happened to them?
About six hundred fifty residents were displaced. They were relocated, some received compensation, but the process was abrupt and traumatic. The quarter had been there since the twelfth century, when Saladin established it as a waqf — an Islamic charitable endowment — specifically for North African pilgrims and residents. It had its own mosque, its own school, its own community identity. And in seventy-two hours, it was gone. The demolition crews worked through the night. By the time they were done, there was an open plaza where a neighborhood had been.
When you're standing at the main Western Wall plaza, you're standing on what used to be people's homes.
You're standing on a site that was deliberately cleared to create a national monument. And that's not hidden knowledge — the history is well documented — but it's not what most visitors are thinking about when they're there. They're thinking about the Temple, about Herod, about two thousand years of Jewish longing for Jerusalem. The Moroccan Quarter doesn't fit neatly into that narrative, so it tends to get left out.
That's the asymmetry that defines both sites. The main plaza is state-controlled, administered by the Western Wall Heritage Foundation, with security checkpoints and designated prayer areas and a visitors' center. The Little Western Wall is a narrow paved area at the end of an alley, open to the sky, with a few plastic chairs and prayer books. It's under the jurisdiction of the Muslim Waqf, which administers the Islamic holy sites on the Temple Mount.
There were tensions about this in 2016 and 2017. Jewish groups attempted to expand the prayer space at the Little Western Wall, and it became a flashpoint. The Waqf saw it as an encroachment. The Israeli government had to navigate between religious Zionist activists and the diplomatic sensitivity of the Temple Mount's status quo. It's a microcosm of Jerusalem's sacred geography in a fifteen-meter stretch of stone.
The status quo is this incredibly delicate arrangement that's been in place, more or less, since 1967. Israel controls the security, the Waqf administers the Islamic sites, and everyone watches everyone else for any sign of change.
The Little Western Wall is a perfect example of how fragile that balance is. It's a Jewish prayer site under Waqf jurisdiction, in the Muslim Quarter, a few meters from the Temple Mount. Any change to the physical space — adding a mechitza, expanding the paved area, improving the lighting — becomes a political negotiation. You can't just send a maintenance crew. You have to coordinate with the Waqf, with the police, with the municipality, and probably with several government ministries. A new bench is a diplomatic incident waiting to happen.
Let's go back to the archaeology, because there's been new work recently. The Israel Antiquities Authority conducted ground-penetrating radar surveys beneath the Muslim Quarter in 2024 and 2025. What did they find?
They identified at least three major voids behind the wall in the stretch between the main plaza and the Little Western Wall. One of these may be a sealed Herodian-era street. If that's confirmed, it would be a major discovery — the western approach road to the Temple Mount, preserved underground for two thousand years. The GPR surveys also confirmed the continuous foundation line that Warren first established, but with much higher resolution. They can now map the wall's subsurface structure without digging a single shaft.
Let's explain GPR for people who've never used it. Ground-penetrating radar is basically a cart you push along the surface that sends radar pulses into the ground. Those pulses bounce back differently depending on what's down there — solid rock, empty space, different materials all have different signatures. You collect the data, process it, and you get a three-dimensional map of what's underground without moving a single stone.
The resolution has gotten dramatically better in the last decade. The 2024 surveys can distinguish between a natural void, a collapsed structure, and a deliberately built space. They can estimate the dimensions of underground chambers to within a few centimeters. It's essentially medical imaging for archaeology — you're giving the city a CT scan.
Which is the difference between Victorian-era archaeology and modern methods. Warren had to sink thirty-nine-meter shafts through rubble and hope he didn't collapse anything. Today, you can map the voids and the foundation geometry from the surface. But you still can't excavate, because there's a city on top of it.
That's the tension that defines Jerusalem archaeology. You have one of the most historically significant sites in the world, and you can't dig it up because people live there, pray there, govern there. Every stone is contested. So the ground-penetrating radar is a way of seeing without touching, which is both scientifically elegant and politically necessary.
There's something almost poetic about that. The most advanced non-invasive technology in the world, deployed to study a two-thousand-year-old wall that runs under a fourteenth-century madrasa in a neighborhood where people are hanging their laundry and selling bread and going about their lives. The ancient and the modern aren't layered — they're interleaved.
The people living above these voids — do they know? Can they feel the history under their floors?
Some of them definitely know. There are houses in the Muslim Quarter where the basement is a Crusader-era vault, and below that is a Herodian cistern, and below that is Iron Age bedrock. Residents have been finding ancient spaces under their homes for centuries. It's not unusual for someone doing a kitchen renovation to discover they've got a Second Temple period mikveh under the floorboards.
Which must be both thrilling and deeply inconvenient. You wanted to redo the plumbing, and now the Israel Antiquities Authority needs to do a salvage excavation in your kitchen.
And that's the everyday reality of living in the Old City. The past isn't somewhere else. It's literally under your feet.
Let's talk about the ashlars themselves, because the stones tell their own story. The Herodian blocks in the Western Wall are distinctive. They're cut with a margin — a recessed border around the edge — and a raised central boss. The largest stone in the visible wall, in the tunnel section, is about thirteen point six meters long, roughly four meters high, and estimated to weigh around five hundred seventy tons.
Five hundred seventy tons. For context, the largest stone in Stonehenge is about thirty tons. The largest block in the Great Pyramid is about eighty tons. A five-hundred-seventy-ton limestone block is an engineering statement.
We still don't fully understand how they moved it. The quarry was probably at Zedekiah's Cave, north of the Old City, which is about four hundred meters from the Temple Mount. That's downhill, which helps, but you're still moving five hundred seventy tons of limestone through ancient Jerusalem's streets. The prevailing theory is that they used wooden rollers, oxen teams, and some kind of lubricated track system — possibly wet clay or oil — but even with all of that, the logistics are staggering.
There's a theory that they may have used capstans and pulley systems, essentially building a temporary crane at the construction site to lift the blocks into place. But we don't have direct evidence of that. What we have is the stones themselves, and the fact that they're there, perfectly placed, with joints so tight you can't slide a credit card between them.
The Little Western Wall has the same Herodian masonry, the same margin-and-boss dressing, confirming it's the same wall, the same construction campaign, the same builders. The stones at the Little Western Wall are smaller than the monster blocks in the tunnel — they're more in the two-to-five-ton range — but the dressing is identical. You can see the same chisel marks, the same margin width, the same boss height. It's a signature.
There's something almost absurd about the fact that you can walk down an alley in the Muslim Quarter, past someone's laundry hanging from a window, and touch a two-thousand-year-old retaining wall built by Herod the Great. The casualness of it. The main plaza feels monumental. The Little Western Wall feels like you stumbled onto something you weren't supposed to find.
That's part of its appeal for the people who seek it out. It's quieter. There's no security checkpoint. You can go at three in the morning if you want — it's open twenty-four hours. The prayer area is small, maybe a few meters wide, and you're standing directly beneath the walls of the Temple Mount, closer to where the Holy of Holies was than anyone at the main plaza.
I want to dwell on that experience for a second, because it's so different from the main plaza. At the main plaza, you go through security, you enter this vast open space, you see the wall rising up, you see the crowds, the bar mitzvah celebrations, the soldiers being sworn in, the tourists taking photos. It's a public spectacle. At the Little Western Wall, you're in an alley that's maybe two meters wide. You can hear people in the apartments above you. You can smell someone's cooking. There might be a cat sitting on the prayer books. And you're standing at the closest accessible point to where the Holy of Holies was. The contrast is almost disorienting.
It's intimate in a way the main plaza can't be. The main plaza is designed for crowds. The Little Western Wall is designed for, at most, twenty people at a time. It's the difference between a cathedral and a roadside chapel.
Why isn't it the main pilgrimage site? If proximity to the Holy of Holies is the measure, the Little Western Wall wins. If it's the same wall, the same stones, the same sanctity — why did the main plaza become the Western Wall?
Because sacred geography is never just about geometry. After the Roman destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, Jews were largely barred from Jerusalem for centuries. When they began returning and praying at the Western Wall, they went to the most accessible section — which was the southern stretch, near what's now the main plaza. The Little Western Wall was hemmed in by buildings, accessible only through narrow alleys. It was never going to accommodate large numbers of worshippers. Then, after 1967, the demolition of the Moroccan Quarter created the open plaza, and the main Western Wall became what it is today: a national symbol, a tourist destination, a site of state ceremonies.
Before 1967, the main Western Wall wasn't even the wide-open plaza we picture today. It was a narrow alley too — maybe four meters wide, with the Moroccan Quarter buildings pressing right up against it. The famous photos of the Western Wall from the early twentieth century show a cramped space, maybe a hundred twenty square meters total, with a low barrier separating men's and women's sections. It could hold a few hundred people at most.
So both sites were originally alley prayer spaces. The difference is that one alley got demolished and turned into a plaza, and the other alley stayed an alley. The sanctity didn't determine the development — the development determined how we experience the sanctity.
The main plaza is the Western Wall as public square. The Little Western Wall is the Western Wall as quiet corner. Same wall, completely different experiences of it.
That's the broader lesson here. Sacred geography is constructed. The main Western Wall didn't become the holiest site in Jewish tradition because it's the closest to the Holy of Holies — it became the holiest site because it was the most accessible section after the destruction, and then the most developable section after 1967. The sanctity followed the access, not the other way around.
Which is a useful corrective to the idea that these things are determined purely by theology or ancient measurements. The Mishnah tells you where the Holy of Holies was. The archaeology confirms the wall's alignment. But which part of the wall becomes the center of Jewish prayer is a story about politics, urban planning, and contingency.
That story isn't finished. The ground-penetrating radar surveys are ongoing. There's talk of further tunnel excavations that could connect the existing tunnel route all the way to the Little Western Wall. If that happens, it would transform the site. Suddenly, the quiet alley would have a direct underground connection to the main plaza. The visitor numbers would change. The political dynamics would change.
Or it could stay exactly as it is — a footnote in guidebooks, known to locals and scholars and the kind of people who send prompts to podcasts about obscure Jerusalem archaeology.
The counterargument to the Little Western Wall's claim is worth addressing directly. Some scholars argue that the closest accessible point is actually a section of the Western Wall Tunnels, not the Little Western Wall. The tunnel route passes almost directly opposite Ritmeyer's projected location of the Holy of Holies. But "accessible" is the key word. The tunnel section is a controlled archaeological site. You need a ticket. You go in groups. You can't linger for prayer in the same way. The Little Western Wall is open-air, open-access, and recognized as a prayer site. So it holds the title of nearest active religious site.
This is where definitions really matter. What counts as "accessible"? Is it just physical proximity, or does it require the ability to use the space for its intended purpose without restriction? The tunnel section might be physically closer, but if you can't pray there without a guide tapping their watch, is it really a prayer site?
There's an analogous debate in accessibility studies about public spaces. A park that's technically open to everyone but requires a permit and a scheduled visit isn't accessible in the same way as a park you can walk into whenever you want. The Little Western Wall is the latter. You just show up. No ticket, no time slot, no tour group. That kind of access has its own kind of sanctity.
Warren's Gate is closer, but sealed. The tunnel section is closer, but controlled. The Little Western Wall is the closest point where you can simply stand and pray without a ticket or a tour guide or a time limit.
There's something fitting about that. The holiest accessible point in Judaism is a quiet alleyway in the Muslim Quarter, tucked behind residential buildings, with a few plastic chairs and some prayer books in a weather-beaten cabinet. It's the opposite of monumental. It's the glockenspiel of sacred geography.
The glockenspiel of sacred geography. I'm going to let that one sit there.
I stand by it. The main plaza is the full orchestra. The Little Western Wall is the quiet instrument in the corner that's actually playing the melody.
You know, the glockenspiel metaphor works better than you might think, because in a lot of orchestral pieces, the glockenspiel is playing the thematic line while the brass and strings are doing the big dramatic stuff that everyone notices. The melody is there, it's just not where the crowd is looking.
And the crowd is at the main plaza because that's where the crowd has always been, and crowds attract crowds. It's a feedback loop. The Little Western Wall stays quiet because it's quiet, and it's quiet because it stays quiet.
For listeners who might want to visit, what should they know?
It's open twenty-four hours. You access it from Ha-Gai Street — the Street of the Chain — through a narrow alley. There's usually a small police presence. It's safe, but it's in the Muslim Quarter, so dress modestly and be aware of your surroundings. It's significantly less crowded than the main plaza at almost any hour. If you want a contemplative experience and a direct connection to the Temple's historical layout, it's worth seeking out. You can also explore the Western Wall Tunnels, which give you the underground perspective on the same continuous wall. And there are excellent virtual tours available through the Jerusalem Archaeological Park website and the Western Wall Heritage Foundation's 3D models, if you want to trace the full length from your desk.
The 3D models are genuinely good. You can trace the wall's entire four hundred eighty-eight meters and see exactly how the buried sections connect the visible ones. It's the kind of thing that makes you realize how much of Jerusalem is underground — not metaphorically, but literally. The city is built on top of itself, layer after layer, and the Western Wall is the spine running through all of it.
That's the image I want to leave people with. The Western Wall isn't a wall in the sense of a freestanding structure. It's the exposed edge of an enormous buried skeleton. Most of it is hidden. The parts we see are fragments. The Little Western Wall is one fragment. The main plaza is another. The tunnels are a third. They're all the same bone.
Which brings us to the open question. As the ground-penetrating radar gets better, as non-invasive archaeology improves, what else are we going to find? That sealed Herodian street the IAA identified — if it's confirmed, if it's ever accessible, it would change our understanding of the Temple Mount's western approach. The Pilgrimage Road on the southern side, which we've talked about before, transformed how we understand the Second Temple period experience of ascending to the Temple. A western equivalent would be just as significant.
It would also be just as politically sensitive. Every discovery on the Temple Mount or in its immediate vicinity becomes part of the broader contest over the site. The Little Western Wall itself could become a flashpoint if new archaeological findings shift the balance of sacred claims. Or it could remain exactly what it is now — a quiet footnote that rewards the curious.
Sacred geography is never settled. That's the thing. You'd think two thousand years would be enough to sort out which wall is closest to which room. But the ground keeps shifting, literally and politically, and the measurements keep getting refined, and the access keeps getting negotiated. The Little Western Wall is the closest point today. Tomorrow, who knows what the radar will find.
That's why I love this topic. It's archaeology, it's theology, it's urban planning, it's politics — and it all converges on a fifteen-meter stretch of stone at the end of an alley.
And now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In 1903, a French colonial administrator in Chad installed a public clock in Fort-Lamy, now N'Djamena, synchronized to Paris time. The unintended consequence: local farmers, who had always timed their work by the sun, began arriving at the market an hour early during summer months, inadvertently creating the region's first pre-dawn trading session, which persisted as a local custom for decades after the clock itself stopped working.
Chad invented the pre-market trading session by administrative error.
The sun is right there, but the clock says Paris. I respect the commitment to bureaucratic absurdity.
There's something almost beautiful about that, though. A broken clock, set to the wrong time zone, creates an entire economic tradition that outlasts the colonial administration that installed it. The infrastructure fails, but the social pattern it accidentally created just keeps going.
It's the Little Western Wall of timekeeping. The official monument is somewhere else, but the real practice happens in the quiet corner that no one planned.
Now we've come full circle. Sacred geography and colonial timekeeping, united by the principle that what people actually do with a site matters more than what the site was supposed to be.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop, and thanks to all of you for listening. If you want more stories about Jerusalem's buried past, we've done episodes on the Pilgrimage Road excavation and the engineering behind it — links in the show notes. Find us at myweirdprompts.com or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Herman Poppleberry.
I'm Corn. Go look at some old stones.
