It was absent from the six-inch surveys of 1842 and 1905, and it is absent from the landscape now too, the site given over to farm buildings. What survives is a single measurement and a story about giants.

When a researcher named Bowman recorded the stone in 1934, it stood just under two and a half feet tall with a girth of fourteen and a half feet, its long axis running north to south. Those proportions suggest something squat and broad rather than the tall upright pillar most people picture when they think of a standing stone. Bowman also noted that it was considered one of a pair, the two stones said to have landed in their respective positions after a pitched battle between two giants. This kind of folk explanation, attaching monuments of obscure origin to supernatural contests or mythological figures, is common across Ireland, where prehistoric stones routinely accumulated legend as their original purpose was forgotten. The companion stone, recorded separately, presumably carried its share of the same story.

The stone is gone now, and the folklore may be all that remains in any meaningful sense. It is a reminder that the archaeological record of any landscape is always partial, shaped as much by what was never mapped, never protected, or simply cleared away to make room for working farms as by what endured.