Roughly rectangular, measuring around 45 metres north to south and 20 metres east to west, its southern edge is defined by a field fence while the other three sides dissolve into overgrowth. Loose stones are scattered across the interior. Nothing about it announces itself as a burial ground, and yet that is precisely what it is.

This is a cillín, the Irish term for an informal burial place used historically for those who were excluded from consecrated ground. Unbaptised infants were the most common occupants of such sites, turned away from parish cemeteries under a theological doctrine holding that, without baptism, a child could not enter heaven and therefore could not be interred in holy ground. Families had little choice but to find somewhere else, and places like this, often at field margins, beside rivers, or near old ruins, became quietly understood repositories of infant loss. The Carrigagulla site was used for exactly this purpose until at least the 1950s, meaning it was active well within living memory when the practice gradually faded. It does not appear on the 1842 Ordnance Survey six-inch map, which suggests either that cartographers did not record it or that it was not yet, or not widely, in use at that point, though the absence of documentation does not imply the absence of burials.

What makes the site quietly arresting is precisely the absence of any visible record of the lives interred there. No names, no dates, no markers to count or read. The overgrowth that now defines three of its four boundaries has effectively reclaimed it, and a visitor who did not know what to look for might walk past without pausing. That anonymity was not accidental; it was the condition imposed on these children by the religious and social conventions of their time, and the landscape has, in its way, preserved it.