They protrude from uneven, grass-covered ground in roughly north-to-south rows, sometimes so close together they nearly touch. Standing among them, it is impossible to say with certainty whose graves they mark, or how many people lie beneath. The contrast with the formal inscribed headstones, grave slabs, and table tombs of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that are interspersed throughout the same ground is quietly striking.

The graveyard was already established by the time the Ordnance Survey mapped it at six-inch scale in 1838, when it appeared as a rectangular walled enclosure of roughly fifty metres north to south and forty metres east to west, reached by a short laneway from the north. Within the north-west quadrant, a church was already recorded as being in ruins at that date. The site changed little by the time of the 1930 edition of the map, but subsequent extensions to the north and east removed the boundary walls on those sides. What survives of the original enclosure are mortared rubble walls on the west and south. A carved stone cross, found in the graveyard about twenty-five metres south-east of the ruined church, has since been moved inside the church itself, presumably for protection.

The old section of the graveyard rewards slow attention. The uniformity of the uninscribed markers, mostly rough field stones rather than shaped slabs, suggests either great age or the burial of those for whom a formal monument was out of reach. Both explanations are likely true at different points in the site's history. The ruined church in the north-west corner adds further depth; early medieval ecclesiastical enclosures in Ireland were frequently surrounded by burial grounds that accumulated use across many centuries, layering the anonymous dead beneath later generations who could afford to leave their names behind.