What makes it quietly arresting is the way ruin and structure coexist: some walls still stand to nearly three metres, preserving their full height, while others have shed their outer faces or collapsed inward, leaving spreads of stone across the grass-grown floor.

The building is a roofless rectangular structure, roughly eight metres long by four metres wide, built from mortared limestone rubble. The west gable retains its most legible feature, a doorway with a pointed arched surround in cut stone, the kind of Gothic-influenced detailing common to later medieval Irish parish churches. Above it, a large rectangular recess with chamfered, or angled, jambs, lintel, and sill breaks the wall face, though half the lintel is now gone. Flanking it at a lower level are two small rectangular openings, lintelled and plain, that appear again in the north wall and south wall, suggesting a consistent, if modest, design intention across the building. The east gable once held a central window; its northern half has collapsed, and two architectural fragments thought to belong to that window now lie in the rubble heap below. The quoins, the dressed corner stones that give a wall its structural integrity, have been robbed out at several angles, a familiar fate for medieval buildings whose cut stone was too useful to leave in place.

Inside, a few stone grave markers remain, along with a wooden cross placed against the north wall. The floor is open to the sky, grass-covered, and strewn with fallen stone. Three mountain ash saplings grow from the top of the north wall near its eastern end, their roots finding purchase in the old mortar. It is the kind of detail that a survey records in neutral language but that carries its own particular weight.