Five of them are roofless and abandoned, their rubble walls open to the sky. The other six have been restored, some with thatch, some with slate, and are once again habitable, which gives the settlement an odd, suspended quality: part living place, part ruin, part something in between.

The houses are built to a consistent pattern that speaks to a practical, stripped-back way of life. Each is a single storey with a roof loft, the typical example measuring roughly 6.85 metres north to south and 3.65 metres east to west, with walls rising to about 2.4 metres. A chimney sits atop the north gable, serving an open fireplace below, and small windows, each around 0.6 metres wide and 0.8 metres tall, are set into the gables to throw a little light into the loft space. The main door, generally in the centre of the east wall, is flanked by a small window on either side; some houses also have openings in the west wall. Each house is separated from its neighbour by a small open yard, and the remains of ancillary outbuildings survive alongside several of the structures. The whole sits in rough hill pasture on a natural break in the slope, a practical choice that offers some shelter from the prevailing Atlantic weather while keeping the bay clearly in view to the south.

The restored houses, a mixture of thatched and slate-roofed, sit on both sides of the road, with the majority of the cluster, ten houses in all, on the north side. Walking between the restored and the derelict structures, the precision of the original design becomes legible: the uniform proportions, the deliberate placement of windows, the shared logic of chimney and fireplace position. It is a vernacular architecture shaped closely by the landscape and climate of this particular corner of the Iveragh Peninsula, and the surviving walls, even the roofless ones, preserve that logic intact.