The site is the kind of place that rewards aerial photography rather than a ground-level visit: the outline of the original enclosure, roughly trapezoidal and measuring around 55 metres east to west by 50 metres north to south, is visible now only as a soilmark, the difference in colour and texture that ploughed ground retains long after the physical boundaries above it have been levelled. A smaller, wedge-shaped inner enclosure in the south-western corner of the site, never recorded on any edition of the Ordnance Survey maps, only came to light through aerial survey.

What makes the Lag graveyard particularly curious is the question of whether it ever functioned as a graveyard at all, at least in any conventional sense. When the antiquary Windele visited in 1838, he recorded that there was no burial ground attached to the church and no visible grave, with the sole exception of a fragment of a graveslab bearing the name of Charles Eden and dated 1625. Yet within a few decades, accounts were emerging of human bones being dug up in several surrounding fields. The bones had not disappeared; they had simply been absorbed into the agricultural landscape, scattered through tillage without any surviving surface trace. The Eden slab, still lying on the north side of the surviving wall fragment, is the one legible remnant of whoever was once commemorated here. The enclosure it sits within is the kind of early ecclesiastical site, a defined sacred precinct, often circular or oval, that once organised religious and communal life across early medieval Ireland, though at Lag the ground has been so thoroughly worked over the centuries that the original form survives only as shadow.