It is not quite a ruin, because there are no walls left to speak of, only a shallow earthen bank enclosing a space roughly sixteen metres east to west and eight metres north to south, with a fosse, a shallow defensive or drainage ditch, running along its northern and southern sides. What survives above ground is barely legible: the bank rises no more than half a metre at its highest, and the interior surface slopes gently westward, smooth and unrevealing. Yet a handful of cut stone fragments found nearby suggest that whatever once stood here was not a simple field structure.

Those stone pieces, found about six metres to the north-east of the earthwork, appear to belong to a single window sill. They are chamfered and line dressed, worked with evident care, and they retain metal in socket holes along their upper face, along with a pintle hole, the kind of fitting used to hang a heavy door or shutter. This is the stonework of a building that mattered. There is a further clue in a gate pillar about four hundred metres to the north-north-west, which incorporates a cut and punch dressed stone; it has been suggested that masonry from the Friarsfield building may have been cannabilised to construct the estate's gate piers, a common enough fate for dressed stone once a structure fell out of use. Whether the building was a house or something more formal is genuinely unclear. The townland name itself carries the word 'friar', and a burial ground lies only fifty metres to the south, which has prompted the possibility that this could be the site of a church or friary. No known church is recorded in the townland, which makes the question more pointed rather than easier to answer. An aerial photograph taken on 13 July 1966 captures both the building outline and its enclosing earthwork, evidence that the site was more legible from the air than it is on foot.