That uncertainty is not evasiveness; it is simply the honest condition of the place. A single fragment of masonry, running roughly east-north-east to west-south-west and standing around two metres high, is so thoroughly smothered in ivy that its construction can barely be examined. What little is visible beneath the growth suggests rectangular or square stone blocks of roughly equal size, which is consistent with ecclesiastical building, but the outline of the church itself has long since disappeared from the ground entirely.

Ordnance Survey maps from 1838 already label the spot as a site of church, meaning the building had fallen out of use or recognition before Victorian cartographers arrived to record it. By the time the same area was mapped again in 1929, the annotation had shifted to church (in ruins), suggesting something was still legible above ground at that point, even if only barely. The building recorded on those maps was modest in scale, roughly seven to eight metres on its longer axis and five to six metres across, oriented east-north-east to west-south-west in the manner typical of early Irish churches, which were aligned to face the rising sun near the feast of the patron saint. What survives today, if it survives at all, is a wall fragment five to six metres long and perhaps the southern flank of that small structure.

Abutting the north side of this possible wall is a rectangular grave plot enclosed by a low mortared stone boundary, inside which stands a nineteenth-century table tomb, the kind of raised chest monument common in Irish burial grounds of that period. The plot measures roughly nine metres north to south and just over five metres east to west. It is a strange arrangement, a later burial enclosure leaning against the ghostly remains of something older, the two generations of memorial use pressed together on the same elevated ground.