That is not a riddle so much as a quiet archaeological fact: the monument has been recorded, measured, and classified, but every trace of it above ground has vanished.

When the archaeologist McCaffrey examined the site in 1952, there was still something to describe. He recorded the remains of what he identified as a tumulus, the Latin term loosely applied to ancient earthen burial mounds, and suggested it likely belonged to the broader class of barrow monuments, the round or oval mounds raised over burials during the Bronze Age and earlier periods. The mound he found was nearly circular, measuring roughly 58 feet by 55 feet across and rising to a maximum height of four and a half feet. Around its base ran a kerb of limestone slabs set on their edges, a simple but deliberate border that would have defined the monument's footprint and given it a low, formal presence on the landscape. That it sat on a natural rise within surrounding marshland adds a detail worth pausing over: the builders, or those who chose the spot, placed it at the highest available point in an otherwise low and waterlogged terrain, giving the mound a prominence out of proportion to its modest size.

Nothing of that now remains visible at ground level. The kerb stones are gone, the earthen body of the mound has been levelled, and the rise in the marsh holds no outward sign of what was once there. It exists now only in McCaffrey's mid-century description and in the coordinates that mark where it stood.