The incoming tide has made a labyrinth of the beach.

As silvery rivulets spread across Culbin Sands to meet the vast, shimmering mudflats, my leisurely walk transforms into an increasingly circuitous odyssey. I find myself weaving inland towards the dense, ancient pine forest, then backtracking closer to the rhythmic crash of the waves, skirting ephemeral tidal pools reflecting the vast Scottish sky, and constantly scaling dunes that the relentless North Sea breeze sculpts anew each day. This ever-shifting landscape, a true testament to nature’s ceaseless artistry, feels like a world apart, untamed and deeply ancient.

In this shapeshifting stretch of north-east Scotland’s Moray coast, an area often overlooked in favour of the Highlands’ more trodden paths, there is not another soul in sight. The profound solitude, the absence of any modern anchor, makes it remarkably easy to cast off the constraints of the present day. My mind wanders, conjuring visions of a Viking longship carving through the grey-green swells, bringing weary warriors ashore, or perhaps a band of towering, man-eating giants marauding from the dark woodland, their guttural cries echoing across the desolate expanse. Such primal scenes, it turns out, are not merely products of my imagination; they are precisely what unfolds here – on screen – in Christopher Nolan’s highly anticipated adaptation of Homer’s epic, The Odyssey.

At first glance, Scotland might seem an anachronistic, even baffling, backdrop for a nearly 3,000-year-old Greek epic. Homer’s immortal poem vividly describes the Ithacan king Odysseus and his men being cast adrift on mysterious, far-flung shores, but its imagined geography is undeniably Mediterranean. Unsurprisingly, the film’s other confirmed locations – the sun-drenched coasts of Sicily, the arid landscapes of Morocco, and the rugged Peloponnese in Greece – align perfectly with conventional expectations. Few people who live in Moray, myself included, anticipated Hollywood luminaries such as Matt Damon, Zendaya, and Tom Holland descending upon our local beaches and sleepy fishing villages last summer. The Moray coast isn’t even particularly well-known domestically, often overshadowed by the dramatic allure of the Isle of Skye or the popular North Coast 500 driving route in the Highlands.

Yet, the more I ponder Nolan’s choice, the more profound and logical his decision appears. Christopher Nolan, a director renowned for his grand vision, intricate narratives, and preference for practical effects over CGI, is known for seeking out locations that offer raw, untamed beauty and a sense of timelessness. The Moray coastline, unfurling due east of Inverness, presents a staggeringly diverse and cinematic panorama: vast, dynamic sand dunes that whisper tales of shifting sands, rugged shingle bars sculpted by millennia of ocean currents, serene pine-edged marshes teeming with hidden life, and dramatic sandstone skerries that jut defiantly from the tumultuous sea. This natural theatricality, combined with the conspicuous absence of tourist crowds and sprawling coastal development, must have been an invaluable asset for a filmmaker aiming to recreate an ancient, unspoiled world. The logistical advantages of an uncrowded, largely undeveloped coastline are immense, allowing for expansive shots and a complete immersion into the desired historical period.

Beyond mere scenery, however, the resonances between the myth-laden world of The Odyssey and these resilient Scottish seafaring communities run far deeper. Legends, superstitions, and folklore cling like barnacles to Moray’s rugged shores, interwoven with verifiable histories of sieges, shipwrecks, and profound tragedies. Take, for instance, the haunting tale of the “Atlantis of the North” at Culbin Sands, now an RSPB nature reserve and forest – the very location where Matt Damon’s Odysseus reportedly clashes with the formidable, giant-like Laestrygonians. Here, a thriving agricultural estate and village once stood, a testament to human endeavour, until the catastrophic night of October 23, 1694. A freak sandstorm, whipped into a frenzy by an unprecedented gale, buried the entire settlement in a single, terrifying night. Locals, grappling with such an unimaginable disaster, attributed it either to a malevolent witch’s curse or their reckless laird’s ill-fated bargain with the devil – a potent narrative of divine retribution and human folly that echoes the hubris often punished in Greek mythology.

“The lore you hear along this coast is worthy of a Homeric epic,” affirms Moray-based author and classicist VJ Randle, whose novel The Athenian Murders draws inspiration from Greek mythology. She leads me along a section of the 50-mile Moray Coast Trail, a path that hugs the coastline, offering breathtaking vistas and hidden coves. Through an early morning Stygian sea-mist, thick and swirling like ancient prophecy, we set off from the charming fishing village of Hopeman. The sandy footpath weaves intimately between tangles of gorse, its yellow flowers defiantly bright, and fragrant purple heather, before we clamber over the slippery rock pools of Clashach Cove, reaching a shadowy opening between the towering, golden sandstone cliffs.

“This cave always reminds me of Calypso’s home,” Randle muses, gesturing towards the damp, echoing interior, “a place of both allure and imprisonment. Although locally, it’s said that a scarier sort of sea-spirit lives here.” She’s referring to the chilling legend of the Grin Iron Wife – a monstrous witch with pale-green skin, rusted-red teeth that gleam ominously, and hair made of tangled seaweed. This fearsome entity is said to drag unsuspecting children and the elderly down to her cold, underwater lair, a terrifying cautionary tale for those who stray too close to the unforgiving sea. The contrast between Calypso, the beautiful nymph who ensnared Odysseus with love, and the predatory Grin Iron Wife, highlights the nuanced dangers embodied in coastal folklore.

Such evocative tales were once meticulously shared and preserved by seanchaidhean – the esteemed oral historians of Scottish Gaelic culture. These revered figures were the custodians of memory, preserving heroic battles, intricate clan genealogies, and local legends through generations, their recitations weaving a rich tapestry of identity and history. They were to Scottish Gaelic culture what the wandering bards, like Homer himself, were to ancient Greece – vital conduits of cultural transmission and collective memory.

It is a fading tradition, one that local storytellers like Michelle van den Hout of Otherworldly Tales are passionately striving to revive. Her immersive walking tours introduce visitors to figures with striking parallels to classical mythology, revealing the universal archetypes embedded in human storytelling. She speaks of the Scottish creator goddess and giantess, Cailleach, a titan if ever there was one, whose colossal power shaped the very landscape. Islands and mountains, she explains, were formed from the rocks that tumbled from her massive creel basket as she strode across the land, echoing the primordial forces of Greek Titans like Gaia or Rhea. Then there is the siren-like Ceasg, a mermaid-like entity with a beautiful but deadly song, luring unwary sailors who succumbed to her melodies to a watery grave – a direct and chilling echo of Homer’s Sirens, whose irresistible music promised knowledge but delivered death.

Van den Hout eloquently explains that such tales were never simply about frightening people. “For isolated coastal communities, where life was often precarious and unforgiving, storytelling was a powerful, practical way to pass down crucial lessons about survival, the importance of respecting nature’s formidable power, and the societal norms of how to treat strangers, whether they were friend or foe. Rather than merely warning a child with, ‘Careful, that place has a dangerous riptide,’ it was far more effective and memorable to say that a terrifying witch lives there, ready to snatch the disobedient.” These narratives, therefore, were sophisticated pedagogical tools, ensuring the transmission of vital knowledge through engaging and memorable narratives.

Threats coming from the North Sea could sometimes be made of flesh and blood, of course. In the historic town of Burghead, I stand on the grassy promontory, a windswept headland overlooking granite cottages huddled protectively around a working harbour. This very harbour is where The Odyssey’s film crew docked a magnificent 35-metre (115ft) longship last year, a stark and thrilling juxtaposition alongside the usual modern fishing vessels. My attention then turns to the subtle, raised earthworks beneath my feet – the almost imperceptible remains of one of the largest Pictish forts ever built, a powerful stronghold that dominated the Moray Firth until it was tragically burnt down in the 10th century, most likely during a brutal Viking raid. This site encapsulates centuries of seafaring conflict and cultural collision.

Along the neighbouring beach of Roseisle, the sands reveal another layer of history. Dozens of barnacle-covered concrete blocks and formidable pillboxes are wedged in the sand, half-buried, like the haunting ruins of a forgotten civilization. Their stark, angular forms, partially submerged, bear an uncanny resemblance to the fabled Trojan Horse, a silent testament to deceptive appearances and hidden dangers. But these relics are not ancient; they are part of a vast defensive frontier from the Second World War, when the Moray coast, with its strategic position and varied terrain, became a secret training ground for the D-Day landings. This profound military legacy continues beneath the waves, where several sunken tanks from these wartime exercises can still be explored on adventurous scuba diving excursions, offering a unique glimpse into a more recent, yet equally epic, struggle for survival.

Heading further east, the coastline transforms again. The cliffs steepen dramatically, and craggy outcrops, sculpted by relentless erosion, have long stirred up fantastical stories of metamorphosis and ancient beings. The soaring, magnificent 50ft sea-arch of Bow Fiddle Rock, for instance, is not merely a geological formation; local legend tells of it being a giant that has fallen beneath the waves, with only the edge of his mighty fiddle still visible above the surface. The haunting cries of nesting seabirds – guillemots, kittiwakes, and fulmars – are interpreted as its mournful, ethereal music, a lament carried on the wind.

A few miles further on, perched precariously on a narrow, windswept promontory, cling the dramatic ruins of Findlater Castle. Befitting its turbulent past, which includes periods of Viking occupation and being besieged by troops loyal to Mary, Queen of Scots, this is where Christopher Nolan has chosen to stage the pivotal scene where the formidable sorceress Circe bewitches Odysseus’s men, transforming them into swine. The castle’s isolated, windswept location, its history steeped in conflict and transformation, provides an ideal, visually stunning backdrop for such a magical and unsettling encounter.

There’s magic on my visit, too, though it erupts not from ancient curses but from the wild, untamed ocean below. The setting sun casts a bronze shield across the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, and the sea, uncharacteristically calm, shimmers with a gentle, expectant glow. Then, a dozen sleek dorsal fins pierce the surface – bottlenose dolphins. They are a regular, cherished sight along these shores, with the Moray Firth being home to Europe’s most northerly resident pod, a thriving community of these intelligent marine mammals. Minke whales, magnificent humpbacks, and even majestic orcas sometimes pass through these rich feeding grounds, making this one of the UK’s premier cetacean-spotting locations.

As dusk falls, a motor launch scuds across the bay, heading for shore apace, its engine a faint hum against the vastness. My thoughts, inevitably, turn to homecomings. That, after all, is the profound essence of The Odyssey, transcending its tales of monsters and battles. It is the hero’s enduring yearning to return to his roots, his hearth, his beloved. His steadfast wife, Penelope, anxiously waiting. Countless women through the centuries have surely done the same from this very clifftop, their gazes fixed intently on the horizon, straining for a sign of a familiar sail, a husband, a son, a father.

But a visit to the Buckie and District Fishing Heritage Centre the following day reveals a more nuanced, and perhaps more powerful, truth about Moray’s coastal women. The fishwives of this region were no idle, passive Penelopes, passively waiting for their heroes to return. Their lives were defined by immense strength, tireless labour, and unwavering resilience. While the menfolk braved the perilous seas, these women toiled relentlessly on shore. They meticulously baited thousands of hooks by hand, a painstaking and often bloody task; they gutted and packed herring with incredible speed and efficiency, the lifeblood of the local economy; and, with baskets laden with fresh catch, they trudged an arduous 13 miles inland to sell their wares, ensuring their families and communities survived.

One faded, sepia photograph in the centre’s display is particularly unforgettable, capturing the extraordinary spirit of these women. It shows the female fishers, barefoot and skirts hitched high against the chill, carrying their husbands on their backs through the surf to their waiting boats, ensuring the men’s precious boots stayed dry before they embarked on their dangerous voyages. These are, perhaps, the true, unsung heroes of these Scottish shores: not a cunning soldier-king like Odysseus, as Homer would have it, but the stalwart, often invisible, “fisher lassies.” Their collective stories, interwoven with sea-swell ballads and ancient wisdom, speak of a profound partnership with the sea, a resilience that transcends time, and a legacy of strength that continues to define the Moray coast.

Where to Stay

During the filming of The Odyssey, the cast and crew made their base at The Seafield Arms in Cullen, a charming coastal town known for its distinctive viaduct and Cullen Skink soup (doubles from £150). "The production team turned our meeting rooms into a working base for editing the film," says owner Charles Milne, offering a rare glimpse into the cinematic process, "while our grand ballroom became a private cinema where Christopher Nolan and the crew watched the day’s footage each evening." For an authentic taste of the film’s magic, their refurbished self-catering accommodation, Bow Cottage, where Matt Damon himself stayed, has been thoughtfully decked out with ancient Greek-inspired touches and movie memorabilia for visiting fans (sleeps seven from £300 a night, minimum three-night stay). While in Cullen, browse the eclectic shelves at Beinn Books for collections of local Scottish folklore, delving deeper into the region’s rich oral traditions, or perhaps a classic translation of Homer’s original epic, bringing the cinematic experience full circle.

How to Get There

National rail services provide convenient connections to Inverness and Aberdeen, major Scottish cities. From there, onward train and bus connections are available to the larger coastal towns of Moray. However, to truly explore the region’s more remote and dramatically beautiful beaches, hidden castles, and extensive walking trails, hiring a car is undoubtedly the easiest and most recommended way to experience the Moray coast’s timeless allure.