It was recorded, named, and fixed in cartographic memory. The difficulty is that, by the time anyone went looking for it in earnest, it had effectively ceased to exist.

When drainage works prompted a test excavation in the area, carried out under licence number 06E0609, archaeologists found the ground had already been through considerable upheaval. The site had been disturbed by quarrying at some point in the past, with the extracted material subsequently used to backfill the same area, leaving a landscape that looked undisturbed on the surface but was geologically scrambled beneath. Local informants confirmed that the mound had been dug out, though precisely when and by whom remains unrecorded. The excavation found no trace of the original earthwork. Earthworks of this kind, which might refer to anything from a burial mound to a ringfort remnant or a later field feature, are fragile things even under ideal conditions; quarrying, even informal or small-scale quarrying, can remove them entirely without leaving so much as a shadow in the soil.

There is, in a sense, nothing to visit here, which is itself a quietly instructive fact about how archaeological heritage is lost. The hill above Seamount House still exists, and the view toward the sea that made the original mound's position so notable remains. Anyone curious enough to seek the location out will find an unremarkable slope, with no visible remains of anything. What the site offers is less a physical encounter than a reminder that the 1827 map was capturing a world already in the process of disappearing, and that the gap between a mark on paper and a feature on the ground can close faster than anyone thinks to check.