Ringed by ash trees and edged along its eastern arc by a rough kerb of large irregular stones and boulders, it measures roughly four metres across and rises less than a metre from the ground. A scatter of smaller loose stones on its surface may be nothing more than cleared fieldstone, tossed up there over generations of agricultural tidying. Or they may not. The mound's modest proportions and ambiguous construction have left it categorised, carefully, as uncertain.

The feature does not appear on the Ordnance Survey's six-inch map of 1838, which is itself a small puzzle. By the 1916 edition, it shows up as a small circular hachured mark, with a farmstead recorded immediately to its south. That farmstead is now a ruin, a stone cottage sitting just below the mound, while a more recent working farm lies to the northwest. The landscape around it shifts from rough rocky ground to the north down to improved grassland to the south and west, the kind of mixed terrain where human activity and natural topography have been tangled together for a very long time. Whether the mound predates the farmstead by centuries or was somehow created in connection with it remains unresolved. It could be a barrow, the term used for prehistoric burial mounds found across Ireland and Britain, or a cairn, essentially a deliberate pile of stones that may mark a grave or a boundary, or it may be something altogether more prosaic tied to the working life of the ruined cottage beside it. The honest answer, for now, is that no one knows.