It occupies an uneasy middle ground: a church that was substantially reconstructed without authorisation at some point after that inspection, leaving a structure whose present appearance owes as much to recent intervention as to its medieval origins.

When the site was formally assessed in 1996, the picture was one of considerable decay. The rectangular parish church, measuring somewhere between fifteen and eighteen metres east to west and roughly eight and a half metres north to south, had lost most of its fabric. The south wall was the most legible survivor, with a central section still standing to around three metres, and a doorway that retained the springing of an arch on each jamb, the point from which a curved arch would have risen, though the arch itself had long since collapsed into a ragged gap. A grass-covered vaulted burial chamber, added at some later date, was pressed against the outer face of the south wall near its western end. The east gable survived only in part, reduced mostly to low footings, and the north wall had sunk to little more than a grassy ridge. The west wall had vanished entirely, possibly absorbed into the graveyard boundary. Sometime after that record was made, the walls were rebuilt and repointed, the south doorway was given a new pointed arch, a matching doorway was cut into the east gable, and two pointed arched windows were inserted into the north wall. None of this work had any heritage approval.

Inside the rebuilt shell, a Penal-era stone cross is kept on display. Penal crosses, small and deliberately plain, were carved during the eighteenth century when Catholic religious practice was suppressed under the Penal Laws, and their survival in any form is relatively uncommon. Here it sits within walls that are themselves a kind of fiction, a reconstruction that looks old but carries no documentary authority, in a graveyard that continues to hold the genuinely ancient alongside the quietly invented.