No stone, no outline, no scatter of rubble marks the spot today. What remains is only the memory of a place, held in cartographic ink.

The Ordnance Survey six-inch map of 1838 recorded two buildings here. The larger sat on a conventional east-west axis, the orientation typical of Christian churches from early medieval times onward, and was annotated simply as 'Church in ruins'. A second, smaller building stood immediately to its west, aligned on a north-east to south-west axis. By the time the revised edition was produced in 1921, both had gone entirely. The cartographers noted the location as 'Church (Site of)', that quiet demotion in status that marks the point at which a structure ceases to be a ruin and becomes only a record of itself. Somewhere between those two surveys, the last above-ground fabric was lost, quarried away, absorbed into field walls, or simply collapsed and settled into the ground.

The headland itself still exists, and the tidal bay still surrounds it on three sides. But visiting with any expectation of seeing the church, even as a ruin, would be a mistake. This is a site defined by its absence, its significance residing almost entirely in what those two maps, eighty-three years apart, tell us about how quickly the physical evidence of a place can vanish.