That, in a way, is exactly the point. A Roman Catholic chapel once stood here, a small rectangular building aligned north to south, clearly legible on the Ordnance Survey six-inch map of 1838. Today not a stone of it remains above ground. The building has been levelled so thoroughly that even the field banks that once enclosed it on three sides have been erased from the landscape.

What the eye cannot catch on the ground, aerial photography once revealed with some clarity. Photographs taken in July 1970 showed the chapel surrounded by a series of linear earthworks, their outlines preserved in the soil long after the structures themselves had gone. Whether these earthworks were the remnants of a medieval field system, the kind of organised strip-farming common across rural Ireland before enclosure, or whether they represent settlement earthworks more directly connected to the chapel and its community, remains an open question. By the time more recent satellite imagery was examined, even those outlines had faded to the faintest cropmarks, the kind of ghost-traces that appear only in dry summers when buried features stress the grass above them differently from the surrounding ground. Nearby, roughly 290 metres to the south-south-east, a Roman Catholic chapel and a ringfort, the circular raised enclosure of an early medieval farmstead, survive as a reminder of how much longer other sites in the same landscape have managed to hold on.

There is, practically speaking, nothing for a visitor to find here on the surface. The site's interest lies precisely in its absence, in the way a map from 1838 and a set of aerial photographs from 1970 together preserve the memory of a building and a surrounding landscape that the ground itself has long since swallowed.