The gravemarkers here carry no names, no dates, no carved crosses. Low upright stones push through the grass in rough north-south rows, interspersed with small flat slabs lying flush with the surface, and not one of them tells you who lies beneath. The cumulative effect, in undulating Mayo pasture on a gentle rise above a drainage stream, is of a community remembered collectively and individually forgotten.

The graves occupy a raised earthen platform, measuring roughly twelve metres east to west and six metres north to south, and standing about half a metre above the surrounding ground. On three sides the platform is edged by a slumped, sod-covered stony scarp, with a low, broken gap near the centre of the southern face, possibly the original entrance point. The northern edge is cut through by a field wall running east to west, the kind of practical enclosure that accumulated across the Irish countryside over centuries, and this wall folds in the southern wall of a ruined rectangular church that abuts the platform directly. The church ruin, which predates the field wall that now incorporates part of it, suggests this was once an ecclesiastical site, the burial ground attached to a place of worship that has long since fallen silent. The uninscribed markers are consistent with the traditions of many rural Irish burial grounds, where plain fieldstones served in place of cut and lettered memorials that few communities could afford, and where the knowledge of individual graves was carried in local memory rather than carved in stone.