The structure is small enough that a person standing at its centre could reach the wall in any direction with an outstretched arm, yet the care that went into its construction is still legible in the surviving fabric.

The hut is defined by a drystone wall, a type of construction using carefully stacked unmortared stone, that now stands roughly half a metre high and has collapsed across much of its circuit, with a scatter of rubble spilling outward to the south. The best-preserved stretch runs roughly northeast to southwest. What makes the remains quietly interesting is a detail of practical engineering embedded in the floor: the northern portion of the interior is cut slightly into the rising ground, while the southern portion sits correspondingly higher, the two adjustments together producing a level surface within a structure built on a slope. It is a small, unhurried solution to an everyday problem, the kind of thing that only becomes visible when you look closely at what the builders actually did rather than what the ruin now suggests.