A low wall of random rubble, less than a metre high, encloses a rectangular chamber roofed with large thin slabs. A narrow entrance at the eastern end leads down a single step into the interior. There is no water inside, and there has not been for a very long time. What remains instead is a collection of funerary material and general rubbish, the accumulated debris of a place that has lost its purpose and its identity both at once.

Writing in 1913, a commentator named Brunicardi recorded the structure as something that had already slipped out of active use, describing it as apparently a holy well that had either dried up or been deliberately filled in, with the votive offerings of pilgrims, along with several skulls and bones, thrown into the chamber. Holy wells were focal points of local devotion in Ireland, places where people left offerings, said prayers, and performed ritual circuits, sometimes on specific feast days associated with a local saint. The combination of religious offering and human bone in this small enclosure suggests the well sat close to, or was absorbed into, the life of the graveyard beside it. By the time the site was assessed in the late twentieth century, it was no longer known locally as a holy well at all, which is itself a quietly significant detail: the memory of what the place once meant had not simply faded but disappeared entirely from the community that lives alongside it.