Welsh Origins?
In November of 2012 my only plan in the United Kingdom was to document the megalithic iconography of pre-Roman Britain and base my PhD research on the resulting collection. I was convinced Northern European Iconography, that which was then called “Celtic Art”, was in fact a writing system nobody had deciphered.
My long-term plan for my collection envisioned an Encyclopedia of British Iconography. Who knows. Maybe one day a genius at Cambridge or Oxford would crack the code and prove my own convictions.
I was then working as an independent and had not even applied to graduate school. I am not so arrogant as to think I could accomplish anything on my own. I was just trying to save tuition by doing my field work in advance of matriculating.
After renting a flat in Cardiff and finding a favorite pub, I took my camera and made my way to the National Museum of Wales. The British have an excellent museum system. They have to. The British Isles, while large in the imagination, are only as large on the whole as any of our largest states here in the US. How they ever managed to form as many kingdoms as they have, in what little real estate that exists, boggled my mind. My point is that the entire region is one, large archeological site.
Personally, I don’t believe the British people suffer from sectarianism as much as they suffer from claustrophobia. Maybe that is just me.
That first day was intended to be my orientation to the museum, a walk through to acquaint myself with lighting conditions, display layout and, of course, museum photography policies. Some museums allow flash photography, while most do not. I believe flash photography should be prohibited, just to be courteous to fellow visitors.
I am, though, not opposed to using my flash when it is allowed. Knowledge, after all, must be advanced.
I recall entering the lobby vividly, and noticing the Welsh Origins Exhibit sign to the right of the entrance. I always begin at the beginning, so I walked through the doors of the exhibit and allowed my eyes to adjust.
When they did, I saw a life-sized exhibit of a Neolithic hunter, kneeling next to a carved megalith, fashioning an arrow and looking every bit an extra on the Flintstones’ set.
I have seen that display at least a thousand times in my life, so I wasn’t shocked.
What shocked me was the geometry on the megalith immediately behind the hunter. Without considering the consequences, I blurted out, “You retards! It’s a map!”.
At some point I will be challenged to admit I am oversimplifying my discovery in the interests of time, but that is precisely how it occurred.
I use the term “epiphany” in my documented research, and I emphasize this is precisely what I mean. In evoking the word epiphany, I mean to say the instantaneous recognition, without prompting, of both the structure and function of a composition.
In my published work I do not begin with Brynn Celli Ddu Pattern Stone because nobody, to date, has experienced the same epiphanic moment when they see the Brynn Celli Ddu Pattern Stone for the first time. I have to struggle, and struggle hard, to convince anyone this artefact is based on cartography.
Mind you, the image offered here is enhanced, by myself of course, using software which increases the contrast and saturation, to amplify the carving on the stone. Manipulation of any sort, I realized, places all such work in suspect light, so I always begin expository narratives with the Dama De Elche of Espana, whom I renamed La Madre De Occidente.
Nobody, to date, has failed to experience an epiphanic moment with the Madre De Occidente. Even if the Madre De Occidente were not the Matriarch of all Realms east of the Danube River catchment, I’d be forced to begin in Iberia to avoid an argument from the start. What all Cornish, English, Irish, Manx, Scottish and Welsh will come to acknowledge, I realized in an epiphanic moment, standing there in the Welsh Origins Exhibit: The British people are, in fact, all Children of Danu and the Madre De Occidente is she.
In terms the Irish will recognize immediately, all British people are the Tuatha De Dannan: The Children of Danu.
Complete, screeching halt.
Anyone who has even a cursory understanding of post-Roman history in the British Isles knows the region, despite being heterogenous to all outsiders, is striped with factions few can distinguish but none can ignore. And few have not heard of the bloody fratricide which often erupts between these rivals.
I, being an American, was treated with respect and familial warmth, but I realized reciprocity was expected.
If I were to rub salt in any open wounds, I’d need a barrister, a good surgeon, or both. This particular epiphany required no special talent on my part. The British People may be faulted for many things, but they cannot be faulted for their decorum, especially towards neighbors, strangers or foreigners. Breaking decorum will immediately acquaint you with Her Majesty’s Constabulary.
I also support the British inclination toward propriety at all times. The British Isles are cozy, to put it mildly. When ninety million people are all stuck on a rock together, decorum rules the roost, or nobody is going home without a chip on their shoulder and a grudge match in their future.
My discovery meant I was destined to break British propriety within hours of my arrival in Cardiff. I had to be certain I was correct.
Back in my flat I toiled all night processing my photographs, which were all of poor quality owing to the absence of a flash. The next morning, I had my first, raw, enhanced image (above), and my first colorized image (also above). I also had a preliminary correlation of cartography using Google Earth. So conclusive was my analysis that I realized this image had to be a fraud.
If the image was a fraud, the megalith was a fraud. I decided to confide in my land lady, who was and remains about the kindest person I met in the British Isles.
After seeing my photographs and listening to my analysis, she urged me, “Go to the library! There is a book, ‘Scottish Places with Welsh names’. Read it. You will see. The Welsh were here in the beginning, long before Caesar invaded. Wales is where it all began.”
She also agreed it was best not to share that with anyone, especially at the pub, at least until I could prove or disprove this magical map in the museum.
Mind you, at that moment, I was absolutely certain that this artefact had to be a fraud. I read up on the Brynn Celli Ddu Pattern Stone online and discovered that the artefact was discovered on the Isle of Anglesey in 1926. To me, 1926 was far too close to 1933 to be a mere coincidence. Who, more than the National Socialist Worker’s Party, or its sympathizers, would want to throw such a wrench in Her Majesty’s gears?
The megalith’s design was too unbelievable, and its discovery too proximate to a surge in factional conflict at that time.
Mind you, I had only identified the front side as cartography, but remained perplexed about the back side, that which documents Scotland.
My land lady’s reaction, which I mistook for sectarianism on her part, alerted me to the need for caution. I was focused on the impossibility of cartography in 3,500 BC, but all that registered in her response was the origins authenticity of the Welsh people.
And she was clearly not a fool. Fools would accept anything which elevated the status of the Welsh without questioning it. So, I kept silent, at least until I got an appointment to speak privately with the Minister of Education & Culture of the Welsh Assembly Government.
In my initial meeting with the Cabinet Secretary, I alerted the Ministry to my misgivings, assured him that cartography was not possible in 3,500 BC. I also promised I would not be publishing anything on the matter until the Brynn Celli Ddu Pattern Stone had been authenticated or proven a fraud by Crown Authorities.
Confidentially, I told him, I knew for a fact the megalith was a fraud. I just wanted to assure the Ministry of my honorable intentions. If I had stumbled across an unexploded NAZI plot, I’d kite it off into a safe corner and disarm it.
“Look at it this way”, I concluded. “If this thing is a fraud, I have a book to publish. If this thing is real, I have lots of books to publish.”
My only challenge was in proving a negative. If the cartograph on the megalith was a fraud, there would be no other signs of cartography anywhere else in the national collections of the United Kingdom. If, on the other hand, the cartograph was authentic, there would be cartography everywhere I looked in the national collections of the United Kingdom.
I promised the Cabinet Secretary I’d have a definitive answer in short order, and I was not wrong. I just did not arrive at my expected conclusion.
That very day, after my meeting with the Cabinet Secretary, I made my way to the library there in Cardiff. If the Welsh surpass themselves in anything other than their manners, it is in their architecture. The library in Cardiff is a marvel of architectural design.
There isn’t a dark corner anywhere in the stacks, which fill at least three stories, perhaps more. I am not certain. I had blinders on, which will only ensure my reader that the library in Cardiff is probably more spectacular than my recollection recalls.
I was a bit cocky. I admit it. I was anticipating quick confirmation of fraud, an immediate flight back to New York to sign a book deal, then a Myth Buster’s episode or two. Easy, peasy, and nothing sleazy.
I grabbed every book I could find on pre-Roman Britain, of which, oddly, there were remarkably few. I began to think I may have over-inflated the potential for controversy in my own head. Perhaps the British people were not as heavily invested in their own origins after all.
I could not have been more wrong.
I didn’t immediately find the book my land lady suggested, nor did I care. That is no slight against the woman, or teh Welsh, mind you. It’s an American thing, I suppose. Do you want to know how many municipalities in the United States are named London, or New London, or Londontown, or some such derivative of London? Ask Chat GPT if you want a complete answer, just expect to have to hit the “stop responding button”.
The list is long. But the Welsh have every right to be proud of the fact that Scots were naming their cities Welsh names. That does not mean those places were Welsh. In fact, that does not mean those people were Scots. I would also not be surprised to learn many of those places even carried the prefix “new” once upon a time.
You see, I knew what my land lady obviously does not. There isn’t much to pre-Roman history in the British Isles. Not on geophysical scales of time, mind you. The whole region was under three kilometers of glacial ice until around 12,500 BC. Scotland was the last place to thaw. But thaw it did, and when it did, it would only be a surprise if Scottish place names were not derivatives of their neighbors to the south. Scotland’s neighbors, after all, were Scotland’s fathers and mothers. Just don’t tell that to the Scots.
A few weeks later, when I arrived in Edinburgh, I inquired with the locals about what my land lady had told me. “Don’t be listening to that steaming bowl of crap!” I was warned. “Mac-Coy. Mac! We were there in the beginning, long before Caesar invaded. Scotland is where it all began.”
Clearly, I recall thinking, Scotland was ‘there”, physically, but it was under ice. But I just smiled, nodded and thanked the man for setting me straight.
As you can probably anticipate, my conversation with an Irishman went pretty much the same way.
“Don’t be listening to that blarney now. O’Coy! O! We were there in the beginning, long before Caesar invaded. Ireland is where it all began.”
The only faction in the British Isles which did not insist they were there at the beginning, long before Caesar invaded, was England. The lack of any claim among the English to origins authenticity in pre-Roman times alerted me to an open wound. The damage Caesar inflicted on the British people has never healed.
As the ecological narrative of British history will confirm, England, or what we today call England, was the only region free of glacial ice in Britain’s age of inception. I made a mental note of the obvious and chose to walk on eggshells.
But the question lingered, why? Why would the English of all factions in the British Isles, abandon their obvious authenticity and graft themselves onto the Jutland? In fact, Englishmen who don’t claim Anglo-Saxon origins double down and claim “Viking” origins.
The answer to this mystery was the last piece of the puzzle I resolved.
On arriving in the British Isles, my impression of the British people were all derived from British sitcoms, BBC broadcasts, a few documentaries on the Royal Family, the gentle wave of the Monarch as she was driven in sedans and state coaches over the years, and meat pies that are far too tasty for your own good.
A week after making my discovery, I came to realize that the British people, in all their many and varied regional forms, all believe they have been misjudged by history, have been reduced to suspects in the eyes of their neighbors.
All conflict in the British Isles hinged on origins authenticity.
I was not about to throw a fake map into that emotional caldron and stir it up. I decided, if I managed to prove fraud, I’d report all I learned to the Minister in Wales and just walk away.
You know I did not, so allow me to get right to it.
I began finding cartography everywhere. In wood carvings, in bronze castings, in forged steel, in hammered gold, in chiseled stone, in basket weaving, in ceramics, even in carved bones of dead horses from 11,500 BC! Iconographic Writing was everywhere.
Allow me to quantify the data set for you.
There are just over three million items in the archeological and museum catalogues from the British Isles. I spent three weeks examining and identifying a handful of them. Some took me hours. Others took me days. None, other than the Brynn Celli Ddu Pattern Stone, took me minutes.
If I was going to decipher the set as a whole, and only dedicated five minutes to each in the effort, I’d have to work, not just live, for another 150 years to make one pass on the lot.
Maybe now you understand why I am making this online, crowd sourced appeal.
I returned to Cardiff, met once more with the Cabinet Secretary, and warned him of an impending avalanche of data. I could not promise to keep news of this discovery from leaking, but promised to keep working in agreement of non-disclosure until the Antiquities Authorities of the United Kingdom could authenticate my findings.
My pledge to the Welsh Minster of Education & Culture was not the reason disclosure has taken so long. I take full responsibility for the delay in announcing this discovery to the world. I had to be correct. I pray everyone understands I was not trying to corner the market on the archeological discovery of all time.
What is that?
The Skeptics are objecting because I work in linguistics, not archeology.
True though that may be, I have, since that day in the Welsh Origins Exhibit, deciphered maps documenting every inch of every continent except Antarctica.
“So?” the Skeptics will demand.
So, that means, though I am but a lowly linguist, and an amateur one at that, I have maps which identify the primary nodes of leadership of every realm in the archaic world, going back tens of thousands of years. In other words, I have maps identifying every major site of archeological significance in the world.
That fact makes my discovery the most important archeological discovery of all time. In order for archeology to surpass what these maps reveal, archeologists will have to discover a literate civilization on another planet in our solar system.
That just isn’t going to happen.
It was in Edinburgh, following my lunch with the Director of the National Museum of Scotland, that I realized I was carrying a burden. I had to call the ball in a debate raging between the Cornish, English, Irish, Manx, Scottish and Welsh for the last two thousand years. Who among the lot came first?
Who was there in the beginning, long before Caesar invaded? It could not have been the Mac Coys, because they were under glaciers until the Bronze Age. It could not have been the O’Coys, since they were too.
There are excellent reasons to believe the southernmost tip of Ireland had thawed, but truly, we’re talking about the rocky cliffs and highlands of Ireland’s southern coast.
At best, in the beginning, long before Caesar came, the only part of Ireland which wasn’t under ice was just a marine bird sanctuary.
I decided I’d allow the ecology to take the lead in all my narratives and draw no conclusions whatsoever.
I became convinced, if the Mac Coys and the O’Coys, and all their lesser contenders, were given enough time to reason through the weather reports, they’d adjust their barroom banter.
The ecology did in fact decide the matter. In the end, what I discovered, and to my complete shock, was that each of them have been telling the truth! And for two thousand years, mind you!
For longer, if the clock started in 9,300 BC!
Abrupt halt.
I ask the Skeptics to refrain from throwing any more red flags. I am, or at least I was with the Skeptics on this matter. I realized, as the Skeptics likely also do, that you just can’t bridge the gap formed by the Irish Sea. There is no Ven diagram in existence which could ever include the claims being made by all parties. It was geologically impossible.
The Irish Sea is the insurmountable barrier in that logic, so someone must be wrong, and doesn’t it look like it is the Irish?
Except the Irish are not wrong.
“How can that be?”, that is the Skeptic’s part.
The Irish are not wrong, because the Irish Sea was no barrier in Brython’s Age of Inception. In fact, the Irish Sea did not exist at all, until more recent geological times. Between the Glacial Maximum and 9,300 BC, there was an idyllic river valley which gradually yielded to a Fjord as sea levels rose.
What the Brynn Celli Ddu Pattern Stone documents is Loch Llion, at it’s fullest, just before the Isthmus of Ireland was breached to form the Irish Sea. Long before that age, long before Caesar invaded Brython, a Kingdom of Three Brothers was founded on the shores of what eventually became the Irish Sea!
Welsh Lore recalls Brython’s central fjord as Loch Llion. Go ahead and search for Loch Llion on any map. You will not find a loch by that name anywhere in the British Isles. That is because rising sea levels have subsumed Loch Llion to form a sea.
This was my second epiphany: For two thousand years, and possibly for longer, the Cornish, English, Irish, Manx, Scottish and Welsh have all been at each other’s throats, convinced one or more of them had to be lying, when in fact they were each telling the Gospel Truth!
In the image above, I identify likely locations for kindred courts, communities formed by the founders of an archaic Realm, people the Irish recall as the Fomorians. As you can see, the Patriarch and Matriarch founded their court at the center (C), and the Children of the East (E), Children of the West (W), Children of the North (N) founded courts of their own in their proper place.
In other words, the English, Irish, Scots and Manx were in fact all there at the beginning, long before Caesar invaded, there in the vale of Llion. That vale is, of course, Avalon. Shrouded in mist, in an age of inception, in an age of innocence, Arthur and Gwenevere established an Order of Precedence unbroken to this day.
We, living today, just can’t believe A Vale Llion was a fact. Granted, my etymological reconstruction is hack, for it is more likely that Avalon originates from Afel Llion, an homage to the crab apples ubiquitous in the region. Whichever way you slice the root, Avalon is its tree or branch.
I also grant you and historical tract of lore became romanticized and glamorized by subsequent generations. But let’s not get hung up on the name. The point is that no Cornishman, Englishman, Irishman, Manxman, Scotsman or Welshman will relinquish their kindred’s claim to origins authenticity, long before Caesar invaded their realm.
And they all think the others are lying.
If that isn’t the very definition of tragedy, I don’t know what is. Godless, futile fratricide in the British Isles has all been for naught. Even the thrill of my discovery cannot mask the depths of loss every Cornishman, Englishman, Irishman, Manxman, Scotsman and Welshman is certain to feel when this tragedy comes into crisp focus.
I forget in which pub, and in which village, but the Irish ballad “Carrickfergus” lead me to another epiphany. The Irish have been lamenting the widening Irish Sea since that day, in 9,300 BC, when it was first formed. Don’t believe for a moment the matter is relegated to 9,300 BC.
At this very minute the Irish and the United Kingdom are trying to decide where the border between them rests. For every diplomat insisting it is the middle of the Irish sea, there are two or more that decry that as permanent division approaching an apartheid boundary.
There is wisdom in both positions for, though our generation will never witness the day, sea levels will fall once more, and when they do, the Vale of Avalon will emerge from beneath a retreating sea. Personally, if all parties treat the Avalon River as the center line, not a dividing line, then aboriginal comity can be restored.
In fact, the ecology insists there is no other course before us. As the Irish Sea retreats, to whom do the Irish intend to cede their newly formed coast? No! Ireland must not refuse the inevitable reformation of Ireland’s borders, which necessarily extend to what is today the center of the Irish Sea.
Carrickfergus, you see, is just the latest rendition of Trystan and Isolde. That more ancient tragedy is just a retelling of a tragedy more ancient still. Trystan and Isolde are witnesses to Ireland’s deepest wound.
On the day and in the hour the North Sea breached the Isthmus of Ireland, Trystan was forever cut off from Isolde. As for Isolde, tragedy followed her everywhere. Isolde is, of course, the eastern Kingdom of Britain, that which we call England & Wales today.
Most recently, this tragedy plaid out during the Tudor Dynasty when the young Prince Henry fell in love with a Royal Princess of Ireland. You got it! Greensleeves was the lament of a young Prince obligated to fulfill the duty of his deceased brother, Arthur, to secure the familial bond between Britain and Espana.
Henry the VII had diplomatic marriages arranged for each of his three children, and by God’s Grace, each child had found true love in their intended. Arthur was betrothed to Espana. Margaret to Scotland and Arthur to…to whom? The history books are now mute.
According to one eyewitness, who can no longer be dismissed, the intended Princess wore a dress brocade in gold over cloth of Emerald Green. The heart nearly breaks when we consider the implications.
Henry had been destined to form a personal union between England and Ireland, and had fallen in love with his intended. If Henry’s lyrics are to be trusted as a guide, which I insist they must, it was she who broke off their engagement. But how and why?
In that moment we infer a conference between an Irish King and Henry VII. A Royal Princess of that age would never have had the agency to break off a Royal Betrothal. And because it was necessary at all, we must acknowledge Henry refused his own father’s instruction, to abandon his betrothed to fulfill his dead brother’s marital obligation.
No. It was Henry VII who intervened and caste Henry in the role of Trystan and Greensleeves in the role of Isolde. If only Arthur had lived. Clearly, Henry’s reputation will find remedy here, once his ballad is accepted as witness to what must have been.
Rehabilitating Henry VIII will be a difficult task, so entrenched is Anne Boleyn’s part in everyone’s imagination. But, I offer, Anne Boleyn merely adopted the guise of the love to which Henry’s ballad alludes.
As Henry careened from one, unfulfilling relationship to the next, his daughters looked forward to their own betrothals with dread. It should come as no surprise that Elizabeth refused to marry for any reason, much less for diplomatic purpose.
Before we blame Henry VII, or the protocols of Monarchy in that age, reflect on the core truth. Europe’s Nobility were just trying to undo the damage Caesar had done. The status quo ante in Europe was defined by familial ties between Kingdoms, and to familial ties all Noble intent turned.
Britain’s Nobility were intent on reforming familial bonds with Espana, and Espana’s Nobility were intent on reforming familial bonds with Britain. These are all just admirable sentiments we may imagine, until the status quo ante can be documented as fact. Familial context between Britain and Espana is precisely what my discovery documents.
All of this washed over me before I had even set foot in Barcelona.
As Christmas of 2012 approached, I had just arrived at this conclusion after personally surveying the Isle of Anglesey and its now famous mound. I needed to know no more. In the case of the Cornish vs the English vs the Irish vs. the Manx vs. the Scots, vs. the Welsh, the Jury was obligated to render an immediate verdict.
I informed the Cabinet Secretary and the College of Arms of all I knew, and begged they honor our agreement of non-disclosure, at least long enough for me to get back to New York and sign with a Publisher.
All parties agreed, and I made a beeline for the ticket counter at Heathrow. The next day I’d purchase a ticket to New York with my last penny, but who cared? I was about to be a multi-millionaire. I booked a pod hotel at Heathrow, had one last meat pie at Wetherspoon’s Pub, and lay awake all night planning my next move in Manhattan.
God just had other plans.
When I got my wakeup call, I leapt out of bed, turned on the television and jumped in the shower. If you have ever spent the night in a pod hotel, you know how cozy a pod can be. The television news came on and I listened distractedly as I lathered up.
“Breaking News! JFK airport and LaGuardia airport have both been closed”.
I didn’t have my glasses and nearly blinded myself with soap trying to see what was going on. I rinsed off and dried myself as the talking heads pronounced my doom. The previous night a “superstorm” named “Sandy” had devastated the east coast of the United States and shut down every international airport on the east coast.
Everything was shut. Not a single airport remained operational in Superstorm Sandy’s wake. And I was, at that moment, on my last dime.
I threw on some clothes, packed my bags, checked out of my pod and skipped breakfast at Wetherspoons completely. I made my way directly to the ticket counter. I was too late. All flights to destinations in Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois and the like were booked solid.
Another epiphany hit me. I was not only on my last dime, but I only had three days remaining on a six-month tourist Visa, and Christmas season had just begun in Europe. It would take a miracle to find housing if I could even manage the expense.
I had to try, and so called the UK Border Force there at Heathrow. Surely, they’d give me an extension on my Visa, under the circumstances. Surely, they did not. I’ll spare you that series of insults and continue on my way. I just want the UK Border Force to know, I owe you an answer for what was done.
I made a beeline for the Mediterranean Coast, spent a month in a Salvation Army in a “Country That Shall Not Be Named”, then heard Spain was the most favorable economy in Europe for anyone finding themselves homeless.
I figured, heck, at least the Costa Del Sol was warm.
I admit a little drama in the retelling, but I don’t lie. The Salvation Army was gracious enough to accommodate me when I discovered all the hostels were full. It was Christmas, after all, and I had no reservations, and no cash if I did.
I contacted the Embassy, like we’re all told we should, but “She Who Shall Not Be Named” was in charge, and I was informed I’d owe the State Department for a same day, first class ticket back to the United States if I wanted to be rescued. Let’s just say I don’t pay retail, and I’ll probably never fly first class, even when I am a multimillionaire.
To say I was feeling a little resentful toward both the UK and US governments would be an understatement. If this is how Americans are treated when stranded by a natural disaster, a few frosty letters are still forthcoming.
On the upside, I got to see Europe, and a lot of it. With so much time on my hands, I continued writing essays analyzing artefacts I had identified. Along the way I also visited a number of regional museums and, finally, came to rest in Barcelona. It was there, in Barcelona where I discovered a regalia necklace on display, a necklace destined to lead me directly to the Dama De Elche in Madrid.
I was only in Barcelona a month, took a detour to Valencia, before returning to the US via Gibraltar. Via Gibraltar. Remind me to tell that tale. Gibraltar took Umbridge with my analysis of Arthurian Lore, but that will have to wait.
It was there, in Espana, that I realized the people of Iberia also suffer from the same fratricidal malady as the British People.
Everywhere I went in Espana, and Portugal, the locals cautioned me about the claims being made by others throughout Iberia. Every region was convinced they were there in the beginning, long before Caesar invaded. Their region was where it all began in Iberia.
I pray my audience all realize now why I took so long to publish news about my discovery. The people I met in every corner of Britain, in every corner of Espana, welcomed me as a brother, treated me like family and told me the same tale. Everyone I met is convinced they maintain an authentic narrative of familial origins, and their neighbors do not.
The magnitude of tragedy imposed by Caesar on Europe, on Anatolia, on the Middle East and on North Africa resonates in every kindred origins narrative told across all these lands. I pray my discovery allows all of my brothers and sisters to realize what I know now: To deny your brother is to deny yourself.
Enough said. Explore the video essays posted on this website and discover for yourself just how correct your fathers and mothers were all along.
I’ll try and keep up with expectations in the months to come, but be patient with me. My research only went into depth in Iberia and the British Isles. Everywhere else only received a confirming, cursory survey, but I believe you can all connect the dots where I left off.
Mankind’s archaic history is not so remote that we can’t piece it back together, now that we have maps. Take the same approach to this discovery as you would with a puzzle. Look for a corner piece, then rebuild the edges. Only then should you begin rebuilding the interior.
My research will guide you in other regions of the world. I have identified the image on the box of every continent’s puzzle. I am depending on all of you to put the pieces together.
Look for updates monthly and get Google Earth Pro installed as soon as possible. Enlisted members of An Unknown Soldier (.Com) will have access to Google Earth KML files documenting kingdoms I have already identified.
Good luck and God Speed.
Respectfully,
An Unknown Soldier
