The grass lies flat, the ground slopes gently towards the Dinin river, and nothing visible signals that the soil beneath was once arranged around the dead. The site is entirely invisible to anyone walking across it today.

The cemetery came to light in 1848 when ploughing turned up several large flat-stones covering cists, the small stone-lined boxes that prehistoric communities used to inter their dead. The cists sat just below the surface along a gravelly ridge, their sides formed by flags set on edge, their floors sometimes flagged and sometimes not. Three were examined closely. Two held calcined, that is cremated, human bones mixed with earth. The third contained cremated remains at the bottom and, above them, the unburned skeleton of a young child. That cist measured only about 78 centimetres long and 31 centimetres wide, too small for a body laid out flat, yet the entire skeleton appeared to have been placed inside. No object of any kind, no tool, no ornament, was found with any of the burials. The three cists lay close together but not parallel to one another, and the contemporary account noted that many more had already been destroyed during earlier tillage work. The site sat in a bend of the Dinin river, with a smaller stream running along its eastern edge, a quietly bounded piece of ground. A century later, in 1949, another cist was uncovered separately on the river bank nearby, suggesting the burials extended further than the 1848 ploughing had revealed.