It does not appear on the Ordnance Survey six-inch map of 1838, and it was absent from two successive archaeological record compilations as recently as the 1990s. It only turns up on a 1921 map edition, quietly present on the hilltop, apparently unremarked upon for decades.

The enclosure is modest in scale, roughly nine metres north to south and just under seven metres east to west, built from drystone masonry, a technique using stones laid without mortar, relying entirely on their own weight and fit for stability. The wall is less than a metre wide and survives to a maximum height of about 0.85 metres. A break in the southern side, around 0.9 metres across, is thought to be the original entrance, while a small opening near the base of the wall on the west-northwest side may have served as a drain. When the site was inspected in 1995, it appeared to be connected to a ruined farmstead nearby, suggesting a date no earlier than the eighteenth century. Whatever its exact purpose, it was probably a functional enclosure associated with the agricultural life of whoever worked and lived on that hill, keeping something in or keeping something out, in the ordinary way of rural Mayo.

What makes it quietly interesting is precisely its anonymity. It sits in good pasture on a hilltop with wide views in every direction, the kind of elevated spot that tends to attract human settlement across centuries, yet this particular structure left almost no paper trail. No folklore attached to it has been recorded, no early cartographer thought to mark it down. It is the sort of place that rewards attention not because of grandeur but because of how thoroughly ordinary it once was, and how thoroughly it has since been overlooked.