Most people walking past would see only bedrock breaking through the grass. Look more closely at the southern end of the slab and there is a Latin cross, cut with evident care into the exposed surface, its lines shallow but deliberate, no deeper than two or three millimetres into the rock.

The slab itself, whether a separate stone or simply an outcropping sheet of bedrock, measures 1.33 metres east to west and 0.74 metres north to south. The cross sits close to its southern edge and is oriented along the same east-west axis as the stone. It is a compact piece of work, 21 centimetres from top to bottom, with a shaft 3 centimetres wide that ends in short bar terminals, the horizontal crosspieces that cap the top and foot of the upright. The arms branch from the shaft as thin incised lines, each projecting 5 to 6 centimetres outward and finishing in their own small bar terminals. A Latin cross of this kind, with its characteristic longer lower shaft, is a form associated with early Christian practice in Ireland, though without excavation or documentary evidence it is impossible to date this particular example with any precision. What is clear is that whoever cut it took some trouble: the shaft is noticeably broader than the arms, giving the cross a quiet internal geometry that reads as intentional rather than casual.

The setting adds to its peculiarity. This is not a church site, a burial ground, or a roadside monument. It sits in ordinary pasture on a slope above a glen stream, the kind of location that raises more questions than it answers about who made it, when, and why.