Beneath that raised surface lies what was once a ringfort, a circular earthwork enclosure of the kind built widely across Ireland during the early medieval period as a farmstead and status marker. By the time cartographers captured it on the 1940 edition of the Ordnance Survey six-inch map, it had been reduced to a faint subcircular outline, roughly 45 metres across, with only a fragment of bank surviving at the south-east. It was already invisible at ground level. The map labels it simply as a fairy rath, which is itself telling: the term reflects a widespread Irish folk understanding that such earthworks were the dwelling places of supernatural beings, and that disturbing them carried consequences.

Those consequences, in this case, were apparently very specific. A story collected in 1940 records that when the rath was first ploughed, sometime in the late nineteenth century, the farmhouse nearby was subjected to six months of poltergeist-like activity: showers of stones that arrived with some force but caused no actual damage. The haunting, if that is the right word, ended after the visit of a poor woman who came to the house and drank water in the kitchen. No further explanation was offered for why her visit resolved matters. The site itself lies towards the bottom of an east-facing slope in the valley of the River Bann, a north-to-south watercourse with the stream running about 170 metres to the east. The combination of a nearly erased monument, a raised field, and a story that was thought worth preserving in oral tradition well into the twentieth century gives this otherwise unremarkable patch of Wexford farmland an oddly layered quality.