Turf-cutting, that centuries-old practice of extracting dried peat for fuel, has inadvertently peeled back the surface here to reveal something it had long been keeping: a network of collapsed stone field walls, their remains protruding intermittently above the shallow bog like a half-erased sentence.

The walls form a roughly rectangular pattern, running approximately 350 metres on the northeast to southwest axis and around 50 metres across. They are low, as one would expect of boundaries so long buried, ranging from just five centimetres to around forty centimetres above the present surface, with individual wall sections between 0.4 and 0.8 metres thick. What makes the site quietly arresting is that the walls appear to rest on the underlying mineral soil, suggesting they predate the bog growth that eventually consumed them, making them relict field boundaries in the truest sense, part of a landscape that was once organised, farmed, and then slowly swallowed. Along the main northeast to southwest wall, upright stones still stand at irregular intervals, some reaching 1.2 metres in height, giving occasional vertical punctuation to what is otherwise a very flat and subtle archaeology. A more recent field boundary, running parallel some 20 metres to the northwest, serves as an unintentional reminder that people continued to divide and work this land long after the older walls fell silent beneath the peat.