By the time anyone revisited the site, the early nineteenth-century building that had been carefully catalogued, measured, and described was simply gone, demolished in the interval between one inspection and the next. That gap between documentation and demolition is where the place now lives.

The house, when it still stood, was a modest but considered piece of provincial architecture. One storey over a basement, it presented a three-bay entrance front to the south, with a door set into a central recess and tripartite windows, meaning windows divided into three vertical lights, housed in shallow projecting bays on either side. The roof was low and hipped, meaning it sloped down on all four sides rather than ending in gables, with a central valley where two roof planes met. Projecting eaves gave it a slight horizontal emphasis. Three chimneys were distributed unevenly: one off-centre on the main roof, two more to the rear. The whole composition was typical of the smaller Irish country houses built in the early 1800s, when a certain restrained classicism, derived loosely from Georgian pattern books, spread into rural areas alongside improving landlordism and a modest building boom. Nothing about the Meeshal house was especially eccentric or grand; it was a functional, quietly proportioned building of its time and place.

What makes it worth noting is precisely its absence. The record captures a building already abandoned, and then records its subsequent disappearance as a plain, undramatic fact. There is nothing to visit now, no fabric remaining to read. The description survives; the structure it describes does not.