Step inside the mortared stone enclosure and the ground behaves unexpectedly: the earth rises markedly from the perimeter walls toward the centre, a subtle dome that speaks to centuries of burial layered beneath the surface. Most of the gravemarkers are by now swallowed in dense vegetation, and those that remain visible are early twentieth-century headstones in the Celtic Revival style, that distinctly Irish mode of funerary stonework with its interlace ornament and rounded lettering. The overall effect is of a place that has quietly absorbed more history than its modest footprint suggests.

The 1838 Ordnance Survey six-inch map recorded the graveyard as a neat square of roughly 25 metres each side, with a medieval parish church pressing against its western boundary, the whole sitting about 50 metres back from the riverbank. By the time the 1921 edition was drawn, the enclosure had grown considerably and shifted its shape, expanding into the roughly trapezoidal outline it holds today, somewhere between 60 and 70 metres across at its widest, with the western boundary now running directly along the riverbank itself. That expansion over less than a century tells its own quiet story about the community that used this ground. Within the enclosure, alongside the ruined church, there is a bullaun stone, a large rock with one or more cup-shaped hollows ground into its surface, a type of stone feature found at early Christian and medieval sites across Ireland and often associated with ritual or liturgical use, though their precise original function is not fully understood.