It is easy to overlook, easy to walk past, and that obscurity is precisely what makes it worth a moment's attention. The walls that remain are low, reaching only about 65 centimetres in height, built in the drystone method, meaning without mortar, courses of stone laid horizontally one upon the other until the structure holds itself together by weight and careful fitting. Partially collapsed now, it measures roughly 3.9 metres east to west and 3.4 metres north to south, a footprint closer in scale to a small room than to anything a modern person would recognise as habitable.

The interior details are quietly telling. Along the south side and at the south corner, large upright slabs line the inside face of the wall, a feature that suggests some deliberate effort to finish or reinforce the space rather than simply pile stones into an enclosure. The entrance, just 40 centimetres wide, faces east, which is a common orientation in early vernacular and pastoral structures across Ireland, offering shelter from the prevailing westerly weather while letting in the morning light. Whether this was a seasonal shelter for a farmer or herdsman, a more permanent habitation, or something else entirely is not recorded. It sits on a terrace running north-east to south-west in rough hill pasture, a position that would have offered a wide view over Bantry Bay to anyone standing at its threshold, though the ferns that now cover it entirely have long since closed that view off from the structure itself.