What they recorded was a rectangular footprint, roughly fifteen metres east to west and eight metres north to south, on a slight south-facing slope. That ghostly outline is still there if you know where to look.

The physical remains are modest but legible. The west wall survives to a length of about five metres, grass-covered now and merging with the ground, with fragments of the north and south walls extending from it and scattered rubble filling the spaces between. The whole sits within a graveyard of roughly equal dimensions on each side, around thirty-five metres square, its boundary formed by earthen banks faced with stone on the outside and softened by hedges. Somewhere within that enclosure stands a stoup, a small stone basin once used to hold holy water at a church entrance, which hints at the building's liturgical life even if nothing of its interior organisation survives above ground. The combination of a ruined church and a continuing burial ground is a familiar pattern in rural Ireland, where a community might abandon a roofless shell but continue to inter its dead in the consecrated ground around it for generations afterwards.