It was erected by a local priest, Fr Walsh, in thanksgiving for the deliverance of nearby livestock from Black Leg, a bacterial disease that can devastate cattle herds. The collision of Bronze Age funerary landscape and twentieth-century rural Catholic devotion is quietly arresting, and neither element quite explains the other.

The mound itself is a mound barrow, a type of burial monument typically raised over human remains during the Bronze Age, constructed from piled earth and sometimes stones. This particular example measures roughly 14.4 metres north to south and 16.4 metres east to west, rising to just over a metre at its highest point on the northern side. It has not survived intact. Surveyed in 2015 by David McGuinness, the mound was found to be heavily eroded and extensively disturbed, almost certainly by treasure-hunters seeking grave goods, a fate it shares with at least one other barrow in the immediate vicinity. The digging has displaced much of the mound material and exposed what may be cairn stones at the centre, the remnants of an original stone structure beneath the earthen covering. The site occupies the highest point on a ridge spur running roughly east to west, a position that would have made it conspicuous for miles around. That visibility was presumably intentional; the people who built it chose a location that commanded the valley below. From the mound, other barrows are still visible across the landscape, one roughly 1.5 kilometres to the south-west on the far side of the Drumhurlin valley, another approximately 1.2 kilometres to the south, partly obscured now by trees. A second barrow sits only 200 metres down the ridge to the west. The clustering suggests a deliberate funerary or ceremonial zone, though the ridge has clearly attracted human attention across a very long span of time.