Among them are three seventeenth-century graveslabs, one of which carries a worn inscription to a man named William, who died sometime in the 1670s, the precise year abraded into uncertainty by time. That slippage, a name half-legible and a date reduced to a question mark, is quietly arresting. The slab does not invite easy reading; it asks you to lean in.

The church that once stood here was demolished before 1838 and replaced by the present Church of Ireland parish church. When the old building came down, the burial ground attached to it followed a different path: rather than being cleared or absorbed into the new ecclesiastical site, it was converted into civic green space, with the memorial stones repositioned along the walls. Bradley and King, writing in 1989, noted this arrangement, and three of the seventeenth-century slabs were recorded as surviving at that point. The William slab is one of them, its companion pieces catalogued alongside it. The practice of relocating gravestones to the margins of a repurposed ground was not uncommon in Ireland during the nineteenth century, though it inevitably complicates the record, separating a stone from the precise ground beneath which the person named once lay.