That designation has persisted. It appeared on the 1839 edition of the OS six-inch map, and again on the 1940 edition, the same name, the same script, across a century of surveying and revision. Whatever prompted the original naming, it was taken seriously enough to be carried forward.

When the Ordnance Survey field memoirs recorded the stone in 1940, the description was precise: conical in shape, four feet six inches in height and eight feet in diameter, with no distinguishing features and, notably, no traditions connected with it. That last detail is unusual. Stones with fairy associations in Ireland tend to accumulate folklore, cautionary stories about what happens to those who disturb them, local customs of avoidance or propitiation. This one had none, at least none that the surveyors could find. What surveyors found instead was a modest protrusion of what is probably natural rock outcrop, roughly one to one and a half metres across and about forty centimetres high, rising from one of many irregular swells on the beach. The ten-metre clay cliffs behind it are themselves a feature of this stretch of coastline, the kind of soft geology that erodes steadily and reshapes the shore over time. The stone sits about twenty metres from the base of those cliffs, well within the reach of tidal activity.

The stone is easily visible from a distance along the beach, though once you are close it is unambiguously ordinary. What lingers is the question the name raises and refuses to answer: someone, at some point before 1839, called this unremarkable natural feature a fairy stone, and that name was considered meaningful enough to ink onto a national map.