The openings, sitting roughly ten metres apart, lead down into what was once a souterrain, an underground passage or series of chambers typically cut into the subsoil during the early medieval period, often used for storage or as a place of refuge. The problem is that the chambers below have caved in on themselves, leaving the mouths open but the interior unreachable, a structure that announces itself and then refuses to be examined.

When P. J. Hartnett recorded the site in 1939, the situation was already the same. He noted that the chambers had been excavated in the subsoil but had collapsed internally, making them impossible to examine even then. The two entrance points he documented remain visible, and the description has not materially changed in the decades since. What Hartnett encountered, and what anyone visiting today would find, is essentially an archaeological threshold with nowhere left to go: the outer form of a souterrain without access to whatever it once contained or concealed. That gap between the visible opening and the inaccessible interior is part of what makes the site quietly compelling, a reminder that not every surviving structure gives up its character easily.