The enclosure stands no more than half a metre high, and a narrow stream finds its way out through a gap on the south-western side. When the site was visited in 1981, a scatter of coins lay on the bed of the water, the residue of an old devotional habit that attached itself to holy wells across Ireland, where leaving an offering at a spring sacred to a patron saint was understood as an act of petition or thanks rather than mere superstition.

The well had been important enough to name and map well before that visit. The 1837 edition of the Ordnance Survey six-inch map marks it plainly as St. Patrick's Well, which suggests it was already a recognised feature of the local landscape by the time the survey teams moved through the midlands in the early nineteenth century. The path leading to it from the south appears on that same map, and by 2011 aerial photography showed it had worn down over generations into something resembling a sunken road, the kind of hollow trackway that forms when foot traffic compresses soft ground repeatedly across many years. That a footpath to a well should eventually sink into the earth is, in its quiet way, a measure of how many people once made the same small journey.