That uncertainty is not a failure of record-keeping so much as an honest account of what survives: a low, irregular pile of loose stone, roughly a metre and a half long and no more than twenty centimetres high at its tallest point, sitting about ten metres inside the enclosure's south-eastern bank. It is the kind of feature that would register, at most, as a slight disturbance underfoot.

A report from 1999 documented something more legible: the fragmentary basal portions of a drystone wall, a metre wide and about ten centimetres high, tracing the outline of a rectangular structure. Drystone construction, which uses no mortar and relies instead on the careful fitting of stones against one another, tends to collapse and scatter once a building falls out of use, which is likely why even those modest remnants have since disappeared from the surface. By the time the site was reviewed more recently, the wall outline had gone entirely, leaving only the loose stone scatter as a possible marker of where the building once stood. One detail complicates the otherwise ambiguous picture: a single stone on the north-north-west end of the north-east side appears to be deliberately set, suggesting at least some intentional arrangement rather than simple field clearance or random collapse. The structure sits within a broader enclosure, a type of defined and bounded space that appears widely across the Irish landscape and could indicate anything from a settlement to a farmstead depending on date and context, though no date has been established for this house.