Whether it was repurposed as a grave marker, used as infill, or simply lost its orientation over centuries of disturbance is unclear, but there it sits, a dressed architectural fragment from a building that has otherwise dissolved almost entirely into the hillside.

The church itself measures roughly 15.4 metres east to west and 6.8 metres north to south, and it now survives largely as low, grass-covered walls of roughly coursed sandstone rubble, with internal heights of little more than half a metre in places. The western gable fares somewhat better, rising to around 1.5 metres, and it is against this wall's inner face that a cluster of headstones has been placed, the earliest among them dated to 1756. A calvary on a concrete plinth now sits atop the eastern gable, and both side walls fall short of it by about 2.5 metres, suggesting either collapse or some earlier alteration to the building's form. Nineteenth-century Ordnance Survey correspondence, compiled by O'Flanagan in 1930, notes that a window near the top of the western gable was at that time obscured by ivy, which gives some sense of how long the building had already been sliding into disuse and overgrowth by the time anyone formally recorded it.

The site sits within a broader landscape that rewards attention. Saint James's Well lies roughly 180 metres to the north, two large ringforts, the enclosed farmsteads of early medieval Ireland, sit to the north-northeast and south-southeast respectively, and Knockkelly Castle is clearly visible on a hill 1.6 kilometres to the southwest. The clustering of a holy well, ringforts, and a church around this quiet slope suggests a long continuity of use, each layer of occupation settling over the last without quite erasing it.