It is not a dramatic ruin. It protrudes just forty-five centimetres above the ground, runs for roughly forty metres in one direction before bending east-south-east for another twenty-five, and eventually reaches the edge of a river. What makes it worth pausing over is precisely that ordinariness: this is a field boundary, a working division of land, now half-swallowed by the landscape it once organised.

The wall sits on a steep south-facing slope of rough hill pasture, and its construction is straightforward, large flat stones laid to a thickness of about eighty centimetres. The fact that it is visible at all is a consequence of the bog having grown up around it rather than the wall having sunk; in many parts of Ireland, peat accumulation over centuries has preserved and then gradually obscured earlier agricultural features, leaving only the topmost stones as evidence that people once worked at dividing and managing land at these elevations. The course of this particular boundary, angled upslope to the north-east before turning to meet a river, suggests it was laid out with careful attention to the local topography, using the watercourse as a natural terminus rather than extending the stonework further.