What visitors encounter today is a waterlogged, oval depression roughly six and a half metres north to south and four and a half metres east to west, filled with grass and watercress, sitting at the base of a sharply dropping west-facing slope. The water that gathers here is not drawn up by hand or contained in stone; it seeps upward from a natural spring, pooling in a shallow depression no more than about thirty-five centimetres deep before draining southward into a small watercourse some eighty-five metres away.

The site appears on the 1842 edition of the Ordnance Survey six-inch map, where it is marked and named as a holy well on the western side of a field boundary. By the time of later OS mapping, in 1899 and again in 1920, the feature had shifted, at least cartographically, to the eastern side of that same boundary. Whether this reflects a genuine movement of the spring's rising point, a surveying inconsistency, or simply a change in how the boundary itself was drawn is unclear. What is clear is that something recognised as sacred or significant was being recorded in the same general location across nearly a century of mapping. Today, the eastern edge of the depression is defined by a large, flat, moss-covered slab, measuring about two and three-quarter metres long, and by other small boulders that appear to have been placed there relatively recently. The field boundary running northeast to southwest forms the western limit of the site.

The setting is quietly awkward to read. The steep pasture to the east and the rough, wet ground to the west place this spring at a kind of threshold between drier and wetter ground, which is precisely where natural springs tend to emerge and precisely where early communities often chose to mark the land as meaningful. The watercress growing in the depression is a reliable indicator of clean, consistently cool spring water, the kind of water that would have made such a site practically as well as ritually valuable.