When inspectors walked the site in 2002, they found nothing they could confidently identify. It took a formal archaeological assessment in 2017 to confirm what the photograph had long suggested: a prehistoric or early medieval enclosure, roughly thirty metres across, clinging to existence at the edge of a quarry face.

The enclosure sits at a quietly significant geological boundary, where the exposed karst limestone of the west gives way to more workable agricultural land to the east. Karst is a landscape shaped by dissolved limestone, typically pitted, fissured, and dramatic in texture, and the enclosure straddles exactly that transition. Its northern and eastern arc is best preserved, marked by a grass-covered scarp nearly two metres high. To the south, the quarry has eaten into it, truncating the circuit and leaving the surviving portion feeling slightly precarious. A small level platform at the north-east, roughly six and a half metres long, may be contemporary with the enclosure itself. The interior is level, and a curvilinear depression in the south-east quadrant, less than half a metre deep, hints at something buried or collapsed beneath. A low bank of dumped stone runs intermittently around the south-west to north arc, though thorn bushes obscure much of it. Most intriguingly, a block of karst limestone placed at the eastern side carries a local tradition identifying it as a Mass rock. Mass rocks are boulders or flat stones used as improvised altars during the Penal era, when Catholic worship was suppressed under eighteenth-century legislation and clergy conducted services in remote or concealed locations. Whether the tradition here is long-standing or comparatively recent is not recorded, but its presence adds a layer of more recent, quietly subversive use to a much older structure.