Grassed over and partly buried beneath a later field wall at its south-western end, the structure measures just over twenty metres in length and less than one and a half metres wide. Those proportions alone are quietly puzzling. It is too slender to have functioned comfortably as a domestic building, too substantial to be a casual boundary, and too carefully oriented, running roughly north-east to south-west, to be entirely accidental.

Local tradition, recorded by the cartographer and writer Tim Robinson, holds that the structure was once a church. That oral memory is often the only thread connecting a grassed-over ruin to any particular function, especially in the west of Ireland where early ecclesiastical buildings were frequently small, plainly built, and made of the same limestone that the surrounding landscape offers in such abundance. Without excavation it is impossible to date the structure or confirm its purpose, but the combination of its dimensions, its orientation, and a persistent local identification with religious use places it within a recognisable category of early or medieval ecclesiastical remains scattered across Connacht. The field wall that now overlaps it at one end is a reminder of how completely such sites can be absorbed into the working landscape over centuries, their original significance compressed into a phrase passed from one generation to the next.