What remains is, in a sense, the memory of a cairn: a circular bare patch of ground, stripped of its stones long before anyone thought to make a formal record of what had been there.

A cairn is simply a mound of stones, typically raised over a burial or to mark a significant point in the landscape, and the one that once stood here was noted in the Ordnance Survey Name Book as having been entirely robbed out. By the time surveyors came to document it in the early twentieth century, every stone had already gone, leaving only that tell-tale ring of exposed earth that local people recognised and named. The Name Book entry from 1903 preserves what the landscape itself could no longer show. Seventy metres to the south-west, a related structure survives in better condition, a radial-stone cairn, a type where stones are arranged in spoke-like lines radiating outward from a central point, suggesting this part of the hill once carried more than one monument. The two sites together hint at a hilltop that held some ceremonial or funerary significance, even if most of the evidence has since been carted away or absorbed into field walls and farm buildings elsewhere.

The site now lies under forest, which makes the bare patch, if it persists at all beneath the tree cover, effectively invisible to a casual visitor. There is something quietly strange about a scheduled monument whose most distinctive feature was always its emptiness.