The walls have long since collapsed into a grass-covered bank, rising no more than about 85 centimetres on the outside and considerably less within. Yet the very flatness of the ruin is part of what makes it worth pausing over: a building that measured 24 metres by 6 metres has been absorbed almost entirely into the landscape, sitting quietly within a rectangular graveyard at the point where a valley slope eases into flatter ground.

The church was orientated northeast to southwest, which is a slight deviation from the more usual east-west alignment found in medieval Irish ecclesiastical buildings. One architectural detail survived into the modern era long after the walls themselves had gone. According to the historian William Carrigan, writing in 1905, the east gable was still standing until a storm brought it down in 1896. The central window it contained was ogee-headed, meaning its arch was formed by two S-shaped curves meeting at a point, a design associated with later medieval Gothic work. Carrigan recorded its dimensions carefully: roughly five feet in height on the outside by about seven inches in width, splaying, or widening, considerably on the inside to admit more light. The craftsmanship had clearly been considerable. The window frame, the quoins at the corners of the gable, and the barge-stones running along the roofline had all been well-chiselled, suggesting a church that, in its time, was built with some care and skill. That a single storm in 1896 was enough to finish what centuries of slow decay had begun says something about how close to the edge the structure had been sitting for a very long time.