It is easy to walk past without registering what you are looking at: a low ring of drystone walling, partially collapsed, enclosing a space barely three metres across at its widest. That modest footprint is the whole point. This is the floor plan of a life lived close to the land, in a building small enough that its walls would have radiated warmth back to whoever sheltered inside.

The hut site measures roughly 3 metres north to south and 2.8 metres east to west, defined by a drystone wall approximately 55 centimetres thick and surviving to about a metre in height at its best-preserved stretch, which runs along the northern arc. Drystone construction means no mortar, just carefully chosen and stacked stone, a technique common across the Irish uplands for centuries. What makes this particular spot more than an isolated ruin is the company it keeps. Immediately to the east, a second hut site sits against it. To the north, the wall adjoins a enclosure, a bounded area that would once have held animals or crops. And a relict field boundary, the faint trace of an old agricultural division in the landscape, terminates precisely at this cluster of structures. Together, these features suggest not a lone shepherd's shelter but something closer to a small working settlement, a cluster of spaces organised around daily tasks that have long since stopped.