The nineteenth-century OS six-inch map records it plainly enough: a rectangular roofed building, roughly twelve metres by ten, aligned on a west-northwest to east-southeast axis, sitting at the roadside in a low-lying stretch of ground with ridges rising to the north and south. Visit the same spot today and there is nothing left to see, no stonework, no doorway, no obvious outline. The building has gone so completely that the landscape offers no immediate explanation of itself.

What remains is a slight rectangular depression in the earth, running east to west, a little larger than the footprint the old map suggests at around nineteen metres long and ten metres wide, and edged by low earthen banks. Local knowledge holds that this hollow marks where the chapel once stood. That kind of oral continuity is not unusual in rural Ireland, where the memory of a religious site can persist long after the structure itself has vanished, particularly in areas where such places held community significance across generations of use. The OS six-inch map series, produced from the 1830s onward, provides one of the earliest systematic records of the Irish landscape, and its notation of the building as roofed at the time of survey means the chapel was still standing, or at least partially intact, when the surveyors passed through. How much longer it survived after that is unknown.

The site sits beside a public road, which makes it accessible in the simplest sense, though a visitor without local knowledge of that depression in the ground might walk past without registering anything at all. The earthen banks are subtle, and the hollow they define is the kind of feature that rewards slow looking rather than a quick glance from the road.