It is a sweathouse, a type of early Irish sauna in which a fire was lit inside the sealed chamber, the embers raked out, and a person crawled in to sweat out illness or exhaustion, often before plunging into a nearby stream or pool. The entrance here is barely 75 centimetres high and less than half a metre wide, just large enough to squeeze through on hands and knees. A mountain stream runs 35 metres to the east, which fits the pattern precisely.

The structure is built of drystone grey sandstone rubble, its walls low but nearly vertical, with a flat ceiling formed by a single large slab. A layer of sod, roughly 15 centimetres thick, covers the roof and appears to have been placed there deliberately rather than accumulated over time. The whole thing is cleverly integrated into a pre-existing field boundary, which serves as the northern wall; one side of the entrance is defined by a single boulder 1.2 metres long that belongs to both the building and the boundary at once. The interior is modest, measuring approximately 1.38 metres north to south and 1.7 metres east to west, with an internal height of 1.1 metres. Notably, the interior wall faces show no signs of scorching or heat exposure, which raises quiet questions about how exactly the structure was used, or how often. There is no smoke outlet, and a breach in the rear wall appears to be later collapse rather than an original feature.

What makes this particular sweathouse quietly puzzling is that nobody locally seems to remember it ever being used. The landowners in the area knew the structure was there but had no knowledge of its purpose, and there is no oral tradition of sweathouse practice in this part of the townland. It sits in a landscape that is otherwise dense with human traces, including rock art, relict field systems, hut sites, and an early ecclesiastical site roughly 300 metres to the west-southwest, yet the sweathouse stands apart from all of them, unconnected and, for now, unexplained.