It is barely two metres in diameter, its drystone walls, built without mortar by stacking and fitting stones against each other, still standing to roughly 0.9 metres in places despite partial collapse. The entrance, just a metre wide, opens to the southwest. It is the kind of thing that looks, at a glance, like a shepherd's shelter or a forgotten field hut, and yet the ground beneath it yielded no clear answers.

When the site was partially excavated, the work referenced by O'Donnell in 2003 produced no evidence of date and no signs of domestic occupation, meaning no hearth material, no artefacts, no food remains, nothing to anchor the structure to a particular period or purpose. A second hut site sits roughly twelve metres to the north-northwest, suggesting this was not an isolated structure, but what the two buildings were used for, and by whom, remains open. The absence of dating evidence is itself unusual; even modest rural sites tend to leave some trace of human activity. Here, the walls survive and the interior does not speak.

The site sits in heavily overgrown rough pasture, which gives a sense of how thoroughly the ridge has been left to itself. The vegetation that now surrounds the structure is part of why the place feels genuinely remote, the kind of landscape where something this small can persist for an unknown length of time without attracting much attention.