The trouble is, nobody can find it. He was interred here in either 1622 or 1628, the historical record being uncertain even on that point, and the grave has since vanished among the long grass and low uninscribed markers that crowd the older part of the site. It is a small, quietly unsettling detail: a man significant enough to be noted, connected to a castle, reduced to an approximate date and an absence.

The graveyard itself sits on the south side of a lane, enclosed originally within a stone wall measuring roughly 50 metres east to west and 38 metres north to south. By the time Ordnance Survey mappers recorded the site in 1914, the east wall was still standing; it has since been removed and the graveyard extended in that direction. The ruins of the late medieval parish church of Aghanagh stand at the centre of the original enclosure, surrounded by nineteenth- and twentieth-century headstones and those low, uninscribed markers that offer no names at all. Beside the church there is also a cross-inscribed boulder, a type of early Christian field monument found across Ireland, where a simple incised cross marks a stone without further elaboration. The older interior section is heavily overgrown, in contrast to the newer eastern extension, which is kept in good order.

Directly across the lane to the north, a rectangular enclosure sits in quiet separation from the main graveyard. Local tradition identifies it as a children's burial ground, known in Irish as a cillín, a category of site used historically for the interment of unbaptised infants and others excluded from consecrated ground. These enclosures are found throughout Ireland, often close to older ecclesiastical sites, and they carry a particular kind of melancholy. At Aghanagh, the proximity of the two burial spaces, one official and recorded, one marginal and largely unacknowledged, gives the whole site a layered quality that the grass and the silence do little to dispel.