No walls remain, only a rectangular earthen platform, roughly twenty metres by fifteen, which local tradition identifies as the footprint of the building. Around it lies a graveyard that occupies an ambiguous place in the local imagination, defined on one side by a road and on the other by a field boundary, and associated in oral memory with shipwrecked sailors brought ashore to be buried here.

The double identity of the site is what makes it quietly strange. Nineteenth-century Ordnance Survey letters, cited by O'Flanagan in 1928, recorded it as a children's burial ground rather than a general parish cemetery. In Ireland, such grounds, sometimes called cilliní, were used for those who could not be interred in consecrated soil: unbaptised infants, suicides, and, as here, victims of drowning. The association with the sea sits oddly this far inland on a Wicklow hillside, but it points to the practical and theological pressures that shaped burial practice for centuries. The Church withheld rites from the unbaptised and from some of the drowned, and communities found their own solutions, often in older, half-forgotten sacred enclosures like this one. Whether the site was never consecrated at all, or whether it simply drifted into this secondary use after the church fell out of regular service, is not clear. To the north, St Iver's holy well survives, a reminder that the landscape around Ballinabanoge carried a density of religious meaning that the vanished church alone does not account for.