When surveyors visited in 2000, they found the low remains of a small drystone structure, oval in plan and measuring roughly 3.2 metres east to west and 1.6 metres north to south, its partially grass-covered lower courses just protruding above the surface of a shallow bog. The wall itself was modest, some 0.65 metres thick and about 0.6 metres high, with a narrow entrance, barely 0.6 metres wide, facing south-east. It sat at the base of a hillock, surrounded by relict field boundaries, the kind of fossilised agricultural landscape that often signals long and layered human activity.

By 2007, when inspectors returned, nothing remained. The land had been reclaimed and reseeded, the structure absorbed back into working ground. Drystone huts of this type are generally associated with seasonal or marginal occupation, sometimes with pastoral farming practices that moved animals and their herders across upland or boggy terrain for part of the year. The bog that had partially preserved the wall for so long ultimately could not protect it once the land around it became economically useful again. What had survived as a quiet anomaly in the landscape, visible only to those who knew where to look, was gone inside a single decade.