No headstones, no carved slabs, no inscribed kerbing of any kind, just a roughly oval patch of pasture on a south-east-facing slope, overlooking Rincolisky Harbour, where the grass grows a little differently and the ground holds a low scarp on its southern edge. The absence of markers is, in itself, a form of information, suggesting a community that either could not afford permanent memorials, or belonged to a tradition that did not use them.

The site was recorded on the Ordnance Survey six-inch map of 1842, which means it was already recognised as a distinct and bounded place when the first systematic mapping of rural Ireland was undertaken in the early nineteenth century. That early cartographic attention is some indication of local knowledge and continuity. The area measures roughly seventeen metres north to south and around thirty-five metres east to west, its boundary defined not by a wall or ditch but by light overgrowth and a slight earthen scarp, about thirty centimetres high, along the southern and south-south-eastern edge. Scarps of this kind often represent the remnant of an enclosing bank, worn down over centuries of agricultural use. The irregular shape of the ground suggests the enclosure was never formally rebuilt or maintained in the way that a church cemetery typically would be, pointing perhaps toward a pre-church burial tradition, or toward one of the unconsecrated burial grounds, sometimes called cillíní, that were used historically for unbaptised infants and others excluded from consecrated ground.

The site sits within ordinary farmland, in pasture, and there is nothing to mark it out to a passing eye beyond the slight variation in vegetation and the gentle break in the slope. That inconspicuousness is perhaps the most striking thing about it. People were buried here, repeatedly and over some sustained period, and the place absorbed them so quietly that the land above them now looks almost like any other field in West Cork.