That combination, the unremarkable and the quietly inexplicable sitting side by side, is about as good a summary as any of what Ireland's holy wells tend to offer. Tobar Colmáin, named for Saint Colmán, is an overgrown, spring-fed hollow with a paving of stone slabs laid before it, the kind of modest human gesture that suggests long use and local care even as the vegetation closes in around it.

The well does not stand alone in the landscape. An early ecclesiastical site lies around 650 metres to the west, suggesting this corner of the Iveragh Peninsula held some devotional or monastic significance in the early medieval period. Closer still, just 40 metres to the east, a bullaun stone sits built into the wall of a hut. A bullaun is a large stone with one or more cup-shaped depressions ground into its surface, and these are commonly found in association with early Christian sites across Ireland, where they were used for grinding or, in folklore, attributed with healing and cursing properties. Whether the bullaun here was always in that wall or was incorporated into it at a later date is not recorded, but its proximity to the well fits a recognisable pattern of overlapping sacred and functional objects in the Irish early medieval landscape. And then there is the pink fish. No further detail survives about what the legend actually says, only that it is associated with the site through local knowledge, which is perhaps the most honest way such things can be preserved.