Taking refuge from the razzmatazz at the local golf club over the weekend, I paid a brief visit into Doonbeg village, Co Clare, and paused to reflect on the remains of its 16th century castle.

Although more just a tower house, really, it must have been an imposing sight in its heyday after the O’Brien clan built it in about 1570.

But it has been crumbling since the 18th century, and the small part that still stands is now the very picture of a romantic ruin: the sort that later landlords with too much time and money on their hands would build for decoration.

During its turbulent early years, however, the castle was fiercely contested. The Nine Years’ War (1594–1603), for example, saw its ownership change hands temporarily when Tadhg Caoch McMahon – an ally of Hugh O’Neill – installed a garrison there.

The O’Briens, by then Earls of Thomond and loyal to Queen Elizabeth I, exacted terrible revenge for this temerity. Sources agree that they hanged the entire garrison “in pairs”, but differ on a grim detail.

One Clare heritage website says the pairs were hanged “back to back”. Other sources – and a plaque at the scene – say it was “face to face”, so that the victims could witness each other’s death throes.

The latter version might be more in keeping with Donald Trump’s comment in Dublin on Saturday that, much as he loved Irish people, some of them could be “vicious bastards”.

Doonbeg Castle’s era as a family home did not end with the Gaelic nobility. In a later era, it mirrored the fate of many once-prestigious urban addresses, like the Georgian mansions of Dublin’s Henrietta Street, by becoming a sort-of tenement.

When the antiquarian T J Westropp (1860–1922) visited the ruin in 1893, he recorded that it was still 60ft high, 45ft wide and 33ft deep, but in bad condition and lacking the original gables, chimneys and battlements.

Despite this, he wrote, it was home to seven poor families. By 1907 that number had been reduced to two and when Westropp returned later in life, he found only one man resident.

Local lore says that, as late as 1930, the castle was occupied by a schoolmaster named Michael Scanlan. But, however habitable it was then, it ceased to be so a few years later, when on the eve of the second World War much of what was left collapsed.

Even in its declining decades, the castle must have been relative luxury compared with one Doonbeg home that made international headlines a few years after the Famine.

As depicted in a 1849 article by the Illustrated London News, “the widows O’Donnel” – sisters Judy and Margaret, along with their families – had been reduced by eviction to living under Doonbeg bridge “in a hole”.

One of the widows had three children “all with jaundice”. The other had five. How long their condition endured is not recorded anywhere I can find, but a separate heritage plaque now records their dire plight in 1849.

By cheering contrast, the many Doonbeg stories in the 1930s Dúchas schools’ folklore collection include a legend about a hoard of gold hidden in the castle.

The location could only come to you in a dream, it was said. But when three Doonbeg men had such a vision one night and went to search the site, “a cock crew warning danger and they got afraid and ran”.

The loot is hardly still there, or the gold-loving Trump would surely have found it. Modern-day Doonbeg, meanwhile, has abandoned folklore and is now instead seeking treasure among the sand dunes of Trump’s golf course and in residential proximity to same.

Having a house or even a room to rent last week was a boon the like of which 1930s folklore collectors could hardly have imagined: one four-bedroom house cost €6,500 for the week. Individual rooms were getting €400 a night.

I secured a bed without breakfast, near Kilkee, at a mere €200 a night – a bargain for which I hope The Irish Times expense department is grateful. And while there, I made the side trip to visit another venerable monument: the old Kilkee Railway Station.

This was the terminus that, 130 years ago last month, Percy French famously failed to reach in time for a recital he was supposed to be giving in the town.

He went on to immortalise the debacle in his ballad Are Ye Right There Michael? and won the subsequent libel case when the West Clare Railway company foolishly sued for damages.

The handsome, colonnaded station still survives, now a listed building and with curtained windows betokening its evolution into residential use.

Alas, no passenger trains run to west Clare these days, not even comically slow ones. The best way to get there last weekend, if you were lucky enough, was by Chinook helicopter.