Roughly fifteen metres across at its widest point, it has a narrow flattish top and broadly sloping sides, and its distinctive indented outline is not natural geology but the legacy of a quarry pit that was dug, stopped, and then gradually smoothed away.

In the 1950s, when a local farmer needed building sand for the construction of a new farmhouse, the west-north-west face of the rise was dug into. The work uncovered human bones. Quarrying was halted, the bones were reburied, and the matter was left to rest. It did not stay resting. Over subsequent decades, farm animals eroding the exposed quarry face brought bones to the surface again. The response the second time was to level off the exposed section and grade the disturbed material back into the mound, which is why that characteristic hollow on the western side now exists. The disturbance has been thorough enough that the original form of the feature is genuinely uncertain. It may be a natural glacial or geological rise that a community at some point chose as a place of burial. It may be a deliberately constructed burial mound, the kind raised over the dead throughout prehistoric Ireland. The two possibilities are not mutually exclusive, and the evidence needed to settle the question is, at this point, largely gone.

What remains is a quietly ambiguous lump of ground beside a working farmyard, its shape altered by sand-digging and cattle and the practical decisions of people who found bones and did the respectful thing with them. The drop in ground level immediately to the east adds another unresolved note; whether that too is the result of quarrying or simply how the land sits here is unknown. Treanagh does not offer answers so much as a landscape that has absorbed its own history and moved on.