No headstones break the grass, no inscriptions mark who lies there, and yet the name has persisted, carrying with it the quiet insistence of folk memory against the absence of any visible evidence.

The site is a rectangular enclosure, roughly 21 metres north to south and 17 metres east to west, bounded by an earthen bank about a metre high with a stone-faced inner surface. It was already old enough to be mapped by the Ordnance Survey in 1842, when the six-inch series recorded it as a square enclosure with trees planted along three of its sides. Those trees eventually prompted the only physical discovery associated with the place: during planting work in the interior in 1936, stone flags were uncovered beneath the surface. The flags were not accompanied by inscriptions or markers of any kind, and they remain the sole material clue that the local tradition of calling this a burial ground has any foundation. Whether the enclosure represents a post-medieval private burial plot associated with the house, an earlier ecclesiastical ground, or something else entirely, the record does not say.

What remains is a modest earthwork in a grazed field, unremarkable to the eye, but carrying the particular atmosphere of places where memory has outlasted every physical marker. The stone flags are not visible from the surface, and nothing above ground announces what was found below it in 1936.