It was mapped, named, and recorded in the nineteenth century, and then, by the time anyone went looking for it in earnest, it had quietly disappeared into the landscape. No boundary, no visible burials, no obvious trace of the church that once stood within it: just a sheltered hollow, ringed on all sides by higher ground, giving nothing away.

The 1842 Ordnance Survey six-inch map marked an irregular enclosure here, roughly 38 metres north to south and 20 metres east to west, labelled plainly as 'Grave Yard', with a church shown inside it. By the 1915 edition, the designation had shifted to 'Grave Yard (Disused)', a small cartographic acknowledgement that the place was already slipping from use and perhaps from memory. The antiquarian T. J. Westropp, writing in 1900, described what he found as a poorly preserved church set within a graveyard, which suggests the structures were already in a very reduced state at the turn of the twentieth century. When the site was inspected in 1998, the field evidence had gone entirely: no perceptible boundary, no stonework, nothing to confirm what the maps had recorded. The southern portion of the area marked on the 1842 map had served as a cillin, a children's burial ground, the kind of informal, unconsecrated site used across Ireland for unbaptised infants and others who fell outside formal church burial rites. These places were often chosen at the margins of existing sacred spaces, and their locations could become obscure within a generation or two once active use ceased.

What remains, in effect, is a negative: a place defined almost entirely by what can no longer be seen. The hollow itself persists, and the maps persist, but the graveyard they described has been absorbed back into the ground that always surrounded it.