What makes it quietly arresting is not its ruin but its formality. The east-facing front elevation is arranged across five bays, with a central doorway flanked by sidelights beneath a semicircular fanlight, the kind of entrance designed to project composure and standing. Above the door, a Venetian window, a tripartite opening with an arched central light characteristic of Georgian design, rises to complete the composition. Sash windows fill the remaining bays, and chimneys crown all four gables. It is a facade that still reads as confident and deliberate, even as the building behind it falls quiet.

The house is of 18th-century appearance, though the story it tells is layered. Local knowledge holds that the rear section is the oldest part of the structure, suggesting the polished front range was added to or built around an earlier, more modest building. A roofless two-storey projection extends at right angles to the rear, a common feature of working country houses where domestic and agricultural functions needed to be kept close but separated. The wider complex reinforces this sense of a self-contained estate in miniature: a walled garden lies immediately to the west, a farmyard with stone outbuildings sits to the north-west, and roughly 300 metres to the south stands the ruin of a single-storey gate lodge. Gate lodges marked the threshold of a property and announced the status of whoever lived beyond them; this one is now a ruin, but its presence confirms the house was once managed as a deliberate whole rather than simply a dwelling.