The building occupies the northern edge of a slightly raised, roughly square platform, set apart from the surrounding ground by a low scarp, a subtle earthwork step of around 0.4 metres, that extends mostly to the south. That kind of raised profile often signals that the ground beneath has been accumulating over centuries, layer upon layer of earlier activity pressing upward. The detail that sharpens the strangeness is this: headstones have been placed inside the church itself, within the roofless shell of what was once a place of worship.

The enclosing wall, built from roughly coursed limestone rubble, appears to date from the nineteenth century, and it seems to have gone up at around the same time as a vault that was inserted into what had formerly been the chancel of the church. A chancel is the eastern end of a church, traditionally reserved for the clergy and the altar, so converting it into a burial vault in the early 1800s represents a fairly thorough repurposing of sacred space. The overall footprint of the graveyard is modest, measuring roughly 28 metres north to south and 40 metres east to west, with the entrance provided by a gate and a stile set into the northern wall at its eastern end. A twentieth-century calvary monument, a sculptural grouping depicting the crucifixion, occupies the north-east quadrant, adding yet another layer of use to a site that has clearly accumulated meaning across different eras.

The ground here is uneven, covered in hummocky grass that makes walking difficult and gives the site an unkempt, almost wild quality. Those humps and hollows beneath the turf are worth pausing over; in an old graveyard on undulating pastureland, they are rarely accidental.