Yet embedded somewhere in that near-invisible fabric is a semicircular doorway of chiselled red sandstone, roughly 1.2 metres wide and 1.9 metres high, noted by the Ordnance Survey letter-writers when a 4.5-metre length of the south wall still stood upright. That doorway, if it persists at all, is the most tangible remnant of a building that has been collapsing, slowly and thoroughly, for centuries.

The church's documentary trail is considerably more legible than its physical remains. It appears in the Pontificia Hibernica as early as 1210 under the name 'Kilcronete', and again in 1260 as 'Kilcronactan', both versions preserving what seems to be an older Gaelic place-name. By 1306 it turns up in Papal Tax records as 'Kilcrone', and in 1499 the diocesan records of Lismore spell it 'Killcronyth'. Somewhere in the sixteenth century the name shifts entirely: from 1539 onwards, through the Inquisitions of Tipperary, the Calendar of Fiants, the Irish patent rolls, and the Royal Visitation records, it is recorded in various forms of 'Kilgrant', a name it still carries in the Civil Survey of 1654 to 1656. That survey adds a small domestic detail, noting that one and a half acres of the church's three acres of glebeland, the land set aside for the support of a parish minister, lay to the east of the building, enclosed by a ditch. The church itself had a nave roughly eight metres long and just over five metres wide, a chancel to the east, and a cross-wall dividing the two. A possible entrance of around 1.3 metres wide has been identified in the north wall of the nave. The whole structure sits near the southern boundary of a graveyard, settled into the base of a north-facing slope in a small east-west valley, in the kind of quiet, contained landscape that medieval communities often chose for their parish churches.