There is no ruin to examine, no wall rising above the grass, no carved stonework to run your fingers over. The building has vanished so completely into the ground that the 1842 Ordnance Survey six-inch map records nothing at all on the site, as if the church had never existed.

What little is known of it comes from scattered historical references. In 1615 the church was reported to be in repair, suggesting it was still in active use in the early seventeenth century, but by 1694 it had been abandoned. Allen, writing in 1973, described it as a small building of chancel and nave, the most basic form of medieval church layout, with a rectangular nave for the congregation and a smaller chancel at the east end for the altar and clergy. Its precise position within the graveyard was preserved only in local memory, passed down to the effect that it stood inside the southern boundary of the oldest part of the burial ground, to the south-east. That oral tradition gained a measure of physical confirmation in the 1940s, when a grave was being dug and part of the structure was uncovered beneath the surface.

The graveyard itself, then, holds the church in the most literal sense. It is the kind of site where the archaeology exists entirely below your feet, invisible and largely untouched, known through a combination of documentary fragments, a nineteenth-century surveyor's silence, and the accidental discovery of a gravedigger.