Whatever prompted that label, the name suggests the place carried some folkloric weight in the landscape long before the building fell silent, and it lingers as an odd counterpoint to the rather sober Georgian facade that greets anyone approaching from the south-east.

The house itself is of early nineteenth-century appearance, a three-bay entrance front with a central rectangular doorway and plate glass sash windows. There is a small but telling irregularity in the fabric: the ground-floor window openings sit slightly out of alignment with those on the first floor, a detail that hints at alterations or at construction carried out in stages rather than in a single campaign. The ground-floor sills are limestone; the first-floor sills are cement, a material substitution that confirms some later intervention. The side elevations are entirely blank, without windows, which gives the building an oddly closed-off quality from certain angles. A gable-ended slate roof runs the length of the house, finished with decorated barge boards at each end and coursed ashlar chimneys rising from the gables. To the rear on the north-east side, a single-storey gabled addition extends the footprint, and beyond that a courtyard is surrounded by ranges of farm buildings, some one-storey and some two, all now disused.

The combination of the formal entrance front, the working farmyard behind, and the old fairy-hill designation makes Garraveasoge a quietly layered place. The misaligned window opes and the mix of limestone and cement sills are the kind of small, legible clues that reward a patient look at the facade, telling more about the building's history than any single date or name could.