The ground is as level and smooth as if a gardener had created the lawn for some genteel ball game and, from the height you stand, you can see the flat is roughly the shape of an old fashioned key in shape.
Half expecting to see a pack of cards wielding flamingos at hedgehog croquet balls you venture out onto the turf. No hoof marks mar the fine blue-grey grass surface and the place seems oddly empty for the Tir.

You are just beginning to contemplate what to do next when your toe catches on something and you stumble. After a moment's embarrassing flaying of limbs and refinding of balance you spin to find the offending object and notice, of all things, a tent peg partially tugged from the ground by your stumble. Carefully pulling it out you notice it is old -rusted, bent and fairly dented - indicating the persons who last used it had more enthusiasm than accuracy when it came to wielding a mallet. Obviously old and well used if not professionally.
Turning it over in your hands you notice something and, scraping away the encrusted dirt and rust, notice, engraved on the shaft:

Mildly excited at the thought you replace the tent peg, tromping down on it until it no longer poses a risk for unsuspecting toes, and have another look around. Nothing else seems to indicate any form of life here though.
Wandering across the salt-tolerant lawn you can see, to the East, a line of conifer trees and... could that be snow?! West Hrimfaxi Mountain rises over the flats, it's black stone slopes absorbing the light. You can make out the sea to the North and West but a steep cliff borders most of the flat in those directions though South-West you can see a path leading down to a white sand beach.