When the Ordnance Survey mapped this part of County Tipperary in 1840, the barrow did not appear on the six-inch sheet at all, yet the townland boundary takes a conspicuous kink precisely where the mound sits, bending out of its otherwise logical course to avoid the monument entirely. That kind of bureaucratic swerve, recorded in ink and quietly preserved across nearly two centuries of maps, speaks to something older than surveying: a persistent, perhaps instinctive reluctance to absorb certain lumps in the ground into the ordinary logic of fields and fences.

The mound itself is oval in plan and steep-sided, measuring roughly 9.2 metres along its longer north-west to south-east axis and 5.4 metres across, rising to about 2.15 metres in height. A barrow of this type is broadly understood to be a burial monument, a raised earthen covering placed over an interment, though the particular period of construction here has not been established from the available evidence. It sits in a slight hollow just off the crest of a hill, on ground that slopes away to the north, set in pasture with a field bank along one side and a wire fence along the other. Centuries of cattle traffic have worn and truncated the outer face, softening what were probably once sharper edges, and the whole mound is now heavily overgrown with scrub.

For anyone who finds themselves in this corner of Tipperary, the mound is not immediately easy to read as anything out of the ordinary. The scrub and erosion have done their work, and without the map evidence of that boundary kink there would be little to suggest this was once considered significant enough to route an administrative line around it. That detail, modest as it is, turns out to be the sharpest clue to what the landscape has quietly remembered.