The trouble is that nobody can say exactly where. Two early twentieth-century observers recorded it independently, and between them managed to disagree on almost every detail: its height, its material, and implicitly its precise position. That kind of gentle scholarly contradiction, preserved in the historical record without resolution, gives the stone an oddly elusive quality, as though it has spent a century quietly resisting being pinned down.

The two accounts are brief but telling in their divergence. Writing in 1918, O'Leary described a sandstone pillar standing over six feet tall. Eight years later, Hurse recorded the same stone, or at least a stone in the same townland, as four feet six inches high and made of limestone. These are not minor discrepancies. Sandstone and limestone are distinct rock types, and a difference of nearly two feet in height is not easily explained by casual measurement error. It is possible the two men were looking at different stones entirely, or that one account relied on local memory rather than direct observation. Standing stones, which are single upright prehistoric monuments erected for purposes that remain genuinely unclear, were once common across the Irish landscape, and a townland might plausibly have held more than one. Without a fixed location, there is no way to settle the question.

For anyone curious enough to go looking, the honest answer is that the stone's whereabouts are not established. No coordinates survive from either account, and subsequent attempts to locate it have not resolved matters. It remains one of those small archaeological puzzles that persists not because it is dramatic but because the record is simply incomplete, a gap in the map that two observers noticed and then left, in their different ways, unexplained.