The circular earthen bank that defines a ringfort, typically built to enclose a dwelling and its outbuildings, became instead the boundary of a local graveyard, the interior given over entirely to the dead.

The graves are marked with rough limestone slabs arranged in rows running north to south, which tells us something important: the rows themselves run that way, but the bodies beneath are oriented east to west, the traditional Christian alignment with the head to the west and the face turned toward the rising sun at the resurrection. A number of stone-lined graves, where the burial pit itself is edged with flat slabs, are also visible at the surface. According to local knowledge, the community continued using the ringfort enclosure as its burial ground until a new graveyard was established beside St Patrick's Roman Catholic church in the nearby townland of Cartron, roughly a kilometre to the northeast. The precise date of that transition is not recorded, but the move would have been part of the broader formalisation of Catholic parish life that gathered pace through the nineteenth century.

What makes the site quietly unusual is the layering of function: a structure built for the living in early medieval Ireland, probably somewhere between the sixth and tenth centuries, absorbed centuries later into the ritual geography of death. The community did not abandon the old enclosure so much as reclassify it, finding in its circular boundary a natural and perhaps symbolically satisfying limit for a burial ground. The rough limestone markers that remain are uncut and unlettered, the kind that name nothing and date nothing, which only deepens the sense that the longer history of this place belongs mostly to the ground itself.