That tile, inscribed "BTM 1758", is among the more precise pieces of evidence surviving in an abandoned rural building of this kind, fixing the house to a specific moment and, tantalisingly, to a set of initials that have not yet been matched to a name.

The house is built to a fairly formal plan for its period and setting. The north-facing entrance front is arranged across five bays, with a central breakfront, a feature where the middle section of a facade projects slightly forward to signal importance, framing a round-headed door with a plaster surround and flanking side lights. Above it, at first-floor level, a matching round-headed window repeats the arrangement. Attic windows in the western gables add a third storey of sorts to what is otherwise a compact double-gable-ended block. To the south, farm buildings survive alongside a forge identifiable by its projecting chimney, a combination of stone construction in the lower courses and brick above suggesting the complex was added to or repaired at different points over time. The eastern gables have partially collapsed, which gives the structure an asymmetrical, lopsided quality that makes the relative solidity of the western end all the more striking.

What makes the place quietly odd is the gap between its architectural ambition and its fate. The round-headed openings, the plaster surround, the breakfront composition: these are the gestures of a household trying to project a certain standing in the landscape. The forge and farm buildings beside it suggest a working estate, not a purely decorative one. Yet by the time anyone was recording it in detail, it had already been abandoned for the better part of two and a half centuries, its datestone outlasting whatever family or purpose the initials "BTM" once represented.