Originally laid flat as recumbent grave markers, the slabs were later stood upright and pressed into service as headstones, which means that a good portion of each stone is now buried below ground. What you see, in most cases, is only a fragment of the original carving. The full extent of the decoration, and in some instances the entire lower shaft of the cross, disappears into the earth.

The southern part of the graveyard holds the greatest concentration of slabs, and this is no accident. It corresponds with the main cluster of 18th and 19th century burials, suggesting the slabs were reused during that period when the demand for grave markers was at its height. Most are cut from schist, a local metamorphic rock with a finely layered texture that splits into relatively flat faces, well suited to carving. Four of the twenty, however, are granite. One slab, Cross-slab 7, stands east of the south-east corner of Aghowle Church and offers a particularly clear example of the complications that come with reuse. It measures 39 centimetres wide and only 5.5 centimetres thick, and presently stands just 26 centimetres above ground. On its west face is a cusped cross, a form in which the angles between the arms are filled with curved, concave recesses, spanning 35 centimetres across. The shaft continues below the surface. The top of the stone has flaked away, leaving the upper transom of the cross incomplete.

Visiting Aghowle rewards patience and a close eye. The slabs are easy to overlook among the later headstones, and their partially buried state means the carvings are often only partially legible. Getting down to ground level to examine the west faces, where the carving tends to be concentrated, gives a clearer sense of the craftsmanship that went into stones now doing a job they were never meant for.