Local tradition says it exists. A nineteenth-century Ordnance Survey map marks something at the spot, a very small circle inked onto the second edition, the cartographers' minimal notation for an enclosure of some kind. But when surveyors went looking, the area had been planted with trees, and the site could not be found.

That tension between cartographic record and physical reality is part of what makes Na Cáintíní quietly compelling. An enclosure, in the archaeological sense, typically refers to a defined area bounded by some combination of banks, ditches, walls, or upright stones, and can date anywhere from the Bronze Age through to the early medieval period depending on form and context. The circle of upright slabs described in local accounts would suggest something older and more ceremonial than a simple field boundary or farmstead. It was noted in the 1996 archaeological survey of the Iveragh Peninsula compiled by A. O'Sullivan and J. Sheehan, which catalogued the region's monuments systematically, though even then the description rested partly on oral tradition rather than confirmed fieldwork.

What remains is essentially a placeholder in the archaeological record, a map symbol and a piece of local memory pointing at a plantation of trees. The slabs, if they exist, are somewhere inside that canopy, unverified and unexcavated, waiting on the kind of attention that forestry clearance or future survey work might eventually provide.