Among archaeologists, geologists, rural delegates, and municipal officials, there were at least ten attendees who reached Montpedrós in Santa Coloma de Cervelló (Baix Llobregat) in September 2020. They came to assess what was then described as “sad news” in a vandalism incident. Barcelona City Council heritage records note that a petroglyph, etched into a rock dating back to the Bronze Age and even earlier from the Neolithic era, had been destroyed. The official report suggests the stone may have incorporated Atlantic megalithic motifs linked to sun worship.
Yet the truth has not been fully revealed until now: the scene was simply a work of art. Francesc Punsola, a Barcelona painter with a career full of lighthearted episodes, once carried a hammer and chisels in his backpack during walks in the 90s. He did not intend to deceive anyone, and now, with his silence possibly ending, there are rumors that public funds might be considered for restoring that plain stone. He believes the moment has come to tell the truth, and he recalls other missteps from years past, a pattern often repeated in social narratives.
These petroglyphs are a form of rock art that have become familiar and, in some places, revered. They involve stones carved with the edges of other stones, prior to metalworking, and later created with iron tools when technology allowed. Regardless of the method, petroglyphs reveal an enduring artistic impulse in humans for thousands of years, regardless of geometric patterns or depictions of natural elements. Punsola, described as a sapien, admits, “That petroglyph was carved by me. I’m apparently the only living Neolithic artist.”
Trained at Escola Massana, Francesc Punsola Isard (Barcelona, 1966) today works as a graphic designer and initially discovered graffiti, adopting a stencil-driven style that gained traction in recent years. He was part of Trepax and, in his case, Frank de Trepax, a moniker for whom he produced a significant mural on the facade of Universitat Pompeu Fabra years later. A renegade take on Taüll’s paintings, a view respected by the MNAC.
The scientific community once warned that chlorofluorocarbons used in sprays could erode Earth’s ozone layer. As a result, aerosols were curtailed. This stance highlights Punsola’s ideological leanings toward harmony with nature and also invites readers to imagine his journeys through Catalonia’s mountains. Before reaching that moment, it remains useful to pause and consider another memorable moment that sparked public attention. (A brief aside, mainly to create a narrative arc.)
He recalled discovering a Zen garden set in a shop window, a simple rectangle of sand with a tiny rake to draw geometric patterns. That practice once eased his boredom, and living in Maresme at the time inspired him to scale it up. He transferred that game to winter beach sands using large‑scale tools, a pastime that was calming—until the famous Grífol, Montserrat’s chief ufologist, approached him with a mix of excitement and disappointment. Grífol, a figure who makes regular treks up the mountain to scout UFOs, had heard a South American report about extraterrestrial signals near Catalan beaches. Punsola did not intend harm, yet his activity fed a curiosity that stretched beyond terrestrial bounds.
His image as a Scottish piper remains intriguing, but today the headlines focus on his alleged Neolithic identity. “I have never hidden,” he declares. “If I walked the mountains and found a stone with an image, I would work on it. Pareidolia, some call it.” The process could be demanding; he notes that in Santa Coloma de Cervelló three weekends were often enough to reveal a new form. He would take the metro to Plaza España, ride the Ferrocarrils, and return to the stone after a walk.
Onlookers paused. “I spoke with them. They seemed pleased with the idea. There was no malice in that sculpture.” Yet over the years, weathered by time, the artifacts may no longer be 5,000 years old but still carry the marks of their origins. The wheel of speculation, however, keeps turning.
Nearby, in Passarell stream near Moià, another of Punsola’s works drew several pilgrimages. Enthusiastic hikers described its location in a blog, though not tied to a figure who once lived with mammoths. “It appears to be a fairly recent engraving.”
To the northeast, near Ripoll, a deciphering artifact surfaces—such as the Santa Coloma de Cervelló petroglyph, nicknamed the “tortoise.” Its authenticity, once claimed, now invites a second opinion to determine if it is a contemporary forgery.
The preface to this narrative describes an archaeologist marveling at a sun-driven chariot across the sky. The scene, though, may be less dramatic than it sounds. Punsola seeks the notebook of the author who penned that legend. The token identifies a signature in hieroglyphics: the initial f stands for a wordplay sign, a sun, an A, and the surname Isard appears again with a reversed horn-like mark.
In truth, the petroglyph remained in place. The city council, after learning of the damage, sent an archaeological report to the Generalitat to outline preservation steps and requested Mossos d’Esquadra investigate. The hope is that some of the damaged stone might be recovered if a vandal’s home is found—an outcome that keeps Punsola awake, pondering the use of public funds to repair what someone might fix for free.
He speaks from the heart. The confession of being the so‑called Neolithic man from Santa Coloma de Cervelló centers on Escorial 50 in Barcelona. A distinctive building stands there, a block of houses designed by a group of architects who reshaped the city’s architecture in the 1950s: Bohigas, Martorell Mitjans, Alemany, Perpiñá, and Ribas, a project that earned a FAD Award in 1962. He grew up in that area, and though he later moved to Maresme, he remains emotionally connected to the property. Worried about the conditions of Escorial 50, he sought permission to care for it, wearing his overalls and promising not to engrave anything on its walls, a pledge kept to this day.