What makes it quietly anomalous is the way its boundaries tell two different stories at once: part ancient enclosure, part modern farmland, the two eras stitched together with little ceremony.

The graveyard measures roughly thirty metres by fifteen, dimensions recorded on the first edition of the Ordnance Survey six-inch map, which places its documentation firmly in the nineteenth century. Its original boundary was a low earthen bank revetted by stone, meaning the bank was faced or reinforced with stonework to hold its shape, a construction method common to early ecclesiastical and burial enclosures across the west of Ireland. That original boundary now survives only along the south-western to southern arc; everywhere else, modern field walls have taken over, absorbing the old perimeter into the working agricultural landscape around it. Inside, several hundred plain headstones are concentrated in the southern portion of the interior. Their plainness is itself a kind of record: uncarved or minimally marked stones were the norm in poorer rural communities, where the priority was marking a grave rather than commemorating it in any elaborate way. The cumulative effect of so many modest markers gathered together is, in its own way, quietly striking.