There are no headstones, no marked plots, no visible sign that anyone lies here at all. And yet local memory has consistently called this place a burial ground, a designation that sits quietly alongside the physical evidence: two low earthen banks, each roughly a metre high, tracing the northeast and northwest sides of a rectangle that once enclosed something considered worth enclosing.

The shape of the enclosure was already legible on the Ordnance Survey six-inch map of 1842, where it appears as a rectangular field measuring approximately forty metres on its northwest-to-southeast axis and around fifty metres across the other way. At some point after that survey, the southwest and southeast banks were levelled, leaving only the two surviving sides to suggest the original form. A quarry has since cut into the western angle of the enclosure, further disturbing whatever arrangement once existed there. The combination of local tradition and the regularity of the earthwork points toward a burial ground of some kind, possibly an early medieval cillín, the term used in Ireland for informal burial sites often associated with unbaptised infants or others excluded from consecrated ground, though the notes do not specify this. What they do confirm is that formal excavation or ground investigation has yet to produce surface evidence of burials, leaving the site in that particular category of places whose identity rests almost entirely on inherited knowledge and cartographic memory rather than anything you can see or touch.