The interior drops steeply from north towards the centre, so that in the southern half the graves have been terraced into the hillside, cut into the slope in steps to keep the dead level. Behind the site to the south, the foothills of the Ox Mountains rise as a backdrop, and the whole enclosure, a subrectangular plot of roughly 37 metres east to west and 42 metres north to south, is bounded by a mortared stone wall that holds the whole arrangement together.

The graveyard holds a dense population of 19th- and 20th-century headstones and Celtic-type crosses, many set at the head of rectangular kerbed plots, alongside graveslabs and chest tombs. What makes the place stranger to walk through is what sits between them: simple, low stone markers, roughly rectangular, between 30 and 80 centimetres tall and 25 to 40 centimetres wide. Many carry no inscription at all. A few bear a name, a plain cross, or the letters IHS, a traditional Christogram derived from the Greek name for Jesus and used on Irish grave markers for centuries. These modest stones, unpolished and uncarved beyond the barest minimum, belong to a much older tradition of marking the dead than the formal Victorian headstones that surround them. In the northwest corner, pressed against the inner face of the west wall, a heap of ivy-covered rubble marks where a church once stood, now reduced entirely to its own footprint.

The original entrance to the graveyard was at the northern end of the west wall, but that section of wall has been removed, and the gap, partly obscured by graves, now connects the old enclosure to a modern extension built along its western edge. The entrance has, in effect, been buried by the very purpose it once served.