The wall runs roughly east-north-east to west-south-west, cutting straight across the site as if the older monument were simply not there, and what remains to the south is a sunken semicircle, barely legible in the grass, measuring around 22 metres across at its widest point. Enclosures of this kind, roughly circular earthworks that once defined a farmstead, a ritual space, or a defended residence, were a fundamental feature of the Irish countryside for centuries, yet this one survives in a state of considerable fragility. Its western edge shows as a slight internal scarp, its eastern edge as a low external one, both so shallow as to be easy to miss without knowing what to look for.

The site was already recorded on the Ordnance Survey six-inch maps of 1842 and again in the 1920 edition, marked with hachures that indicated even then the earthwork's worn and indistinct character. What makes its situation quietly odd is the layer of history that accumulated around it in the intervening centuries. The enclosure sits in the northern centre of what was a mid-nineteenth-century racecourse, a fact that places these two very different uses of land in an unexpected relationship. The racecourse would have brought noise, crowds, and a particular kind of organised spectacle to ground that had once been shaped for entirely different purposes. By the time the racegoers arrived, the enclosure was already old and poorly understood; a short length of earthen bank to the north of the bisecting field wall, itself overlaid with remnants of drystone walling, hints at where the original northern arc once ran, though even that is now cloaked in nettles and uncertain.