THE tour guide at Donegal Castle, a 15th-century ruin that played a significant role in the history of Ulster, reels off a Gatling-gun of goodbyes as he ushers me and my family outside: “Aye, that’ll do the job, no bother, hey. Great stuff. I’ll get the door for this wee woman here, now. Great stuff, hey. No bother at all, hey. Good man, now. No bother, cheerio.” This is hospitality Irish-style.

If you’ve ever been to Donegal you will know that here in the most northerly county of Ireland they like to talk. A lot.

And so they should, as the Irish saying goes, "An té a bhíónn siúlach, bíonn scéalach" (on tay a vee-on shoo-loch, bee-on skay-loch), or in English, "He who travels has stories to tell".

And if Ireland has one of the largest diasporas in the world, then Donegal must be its epicentre.

The history of the county of Tir Chonaill – or land of Connall – is littered with stories of people being blown to the four corners of the earth. Even the name Donegal, in Gaelic Dún na nGall, means Fort of the Foreigners. The foreigners in that instance were the Vikings, who in the ninth century had a settlement in what is modern-day Donegal Town. Through the centuries, Donegal natives have been forced to flee their beautiful homeland. It is a history that takes in everything from the Flight of Earls (when the Gaelic lordship of Ireland set sail from Donegal headed to Spain, effectively bringing an end to Gaelic rule of the island), to the Great Famine (which hit this part of Ireland particularly badly), the Partition of Ireland (where Donegal was carved off from its northern neighbours of Derry and Tyrone to become part of the Irish Free State), and even the Troubles.

Little wonder then that anywhere you go, and especially in Scotland, everyone has a connection to Donegal – and a story to tell.

That doesn’t mean it is a well-known place. Far from it. The sights, sounds and smells of this unique part of the world are rarely tasted, but once experienced, they are hard to forget. Freshly-cut peat, sea spray from the raging Atlantic Ocean, golden sands, huge mountains. Indoors, that same peat burns on the fire as damp coats steam; there's the taste of wheaten bread, lathered in salty butter and dipped into fresh mussels; the scent of Guinness; and the patter of that ever-present rain as it blows against the window.

As it happens, we don’t get a drop (of rain that is; there is plenty of Guinness) on our late-January trip to Lough Eske Castle, a five-star hotel with a rich history dating back to the 1400s and which lies just outside the town that gave the county its name. Taking a slight detour around Lough Eske on our way to the castle, we see that the sun is sitting low in the clear blue sky. It casts such a gorgeous light that you could be forgiven for thinking that you were looking out on an Italian lake in the height of summer – until you step outside that is. The air is so cold that it momentarily takes my breath away.

On an information board beside the lough, we read oral histories collected from the Irish-speaking locals about the Great Famine and how “in 1847 ‘Wray the Agent’ noticed a black patch in the middle of a field of potatoes. He talked to another man about it, but neither seemed to know what it signified. On his way home the following day, Wray saw that not only was the particular tilled field entirely black but indeed, every singled tilled field in the area was now yellowish back in colour”.

Just as I read the story, a small helicopter circles overhead. It swoops down and lands on a helipad on the edge of the lough, part of a luxury hotel complex. After reading the poignant history of impending poverty and misery, it is a strange juxtaposition.

Donegal, however, is at least consistent in its inconsistencies. For many, Donegal is its wild Atlantic coast, a surfer’s paradise where you can stand on the sea cliffs and look out on the vast expanse of water, next stop America. But Donegal is also dominated by the Blue Stack Mountains, a huge range that splits Donegal Town and Ballyshannon in the south from Letterkenny and the county town of Lifford in the north. For others still it is its peat-rich bog land, and that is all before you even mention the Gaeltacht, the region of Donegal that is one of the last remaining fortresses of Irish culture and language.

For me, Donegal is all of these things and more. It is a land of tranquillity and energy, where talking and silence go hand in hand. Our arrival at the castle is a case in point. The stones crunch under the car wheels as we pull up to the entrance and we are quietly guided into the plush carpet and marble reception area. We check in with a minimum of fuss. At this stage our hosts instinctively understand that we have had a long drive and are not ready to engage in full-blown conversation.

After we've settled in and dressed for dinner, however, it is all systems go. The staff talk to us about everything and anything. Having a five-course dinner in the Cedars Restaurant is like dining with old friends.

The next day at the hotel’s spa is the same. “Well, that’s your treatment finished. We have spoken the whole way through it,” says my masseur. Maybe that is unusual – at least my wife says it was – but I am fascinated by the stories of his life.

In the evening, evening after another fabulous meal, this time from the Oak Bar, the stories and laughter continue as we talk to fellow guests in one of the castle’s many little nooks. It is what you come to expect from Donegal and it is a salve for the soul.

Thomas Hawkins was a guest of Lough Eske Castle, a Solis Hotel & Spa. For more information, visit www.solishotels.com/lougheskecastle