The incoming tide has made a labyrinth of the beach.

As silvery rivulets spread across Culbin Sands to meet the mudflats, my walk becomes increasingly circuitous: weaving inland towards the ancient pine forest, backtracking closer to the North Sea waves, skirting tidal pools, and scaling dunes constantly resculpted by the ceaseless breeze. This is a landscape in perpetual motion, a testament to the raw, untamed power of nature, where the land itself seems to breathe and shift with each passing hour.

In this shapeshifting stretch of north-east Scotland’s Moray coast, there’s not another soul in sight, nothing to anchor me to the modern day. The vast expanse of sand, the whispering pines, and the rhythmic crash of the waves create an atmosphere ripe for ancient imaginings. It’s easy, then, to envision a longship, its dragon prow cutting through the mist, bringing weary warriors ashore, their eyes scanning an unfamiliar coast for shelter. Or perhaps a band of man-eating giants, emerging from the shadowy depths of the woodland, their colossal forms dwarfing the trees. Which is exactly what happens here – on screen – in Christopher Nolan’s much-anticipated adaptation of The Odyssey.

The revelation that the Moray Coast would serve as a principal filming location for Nolan’s epic retelling of Homer’s nearly 3,000-year-old Greek poem sent ripples of surprise, and not a little pride, through local communities. At first glance, Scotland is not an obvious backdrop for a narrative traditionally steeped in the sun-drenched landscapes of the Mediterranean. While Homer’s poem vividly describes the Ithacan king Odysseus and his men being cast adrift on mysterious, far-flung shores, its imagined geography is firmly rooted in the Aegean and Ionian seas. Unsurprisingly, previous cinematic adaptations and the film’s other confirmed locations—Sicily, Morocco, and the Peloponnese—reinforce this classical expectation. Few people who live in Moray, including myself, anticipated Hollywood luminaries like Matt Damon, Zendaya, and Tom Holland descending on our local beaches and sleepy fishing villages last summer, transforming them into ancient, perilous realms. The Moray coast isn’t even well known domestically, often overshadowed by the dramatic grandeur of the Isle of Skye or the popular North Coast 500 driving route in the Highlands, which aggressively markets its rugged beauty.

Yet, the more I delve into the unique character of this coastline, and the more I reflect on Nolan’s reputation for choosing visually distinctive and often unexpected locations, the more his decision makes profound sense. Unfurling due east of Inverness, the Moray Coast is a tapestry of varied and dramatic geological features: vast sand dunes that stretch for miles, dynamic shingle bars constantly reshaped by tidal forces, tranquil pine-edged marshes teeming with wildlife, and dramatic sandstone skerries carved by millennia of wind and sea. This coastline is not merely cinematic; it is unusually varied, offering a diverse palette of natural environments rarely found within such close proximity. Crucially for filmmakers, the relative absence of tourist crowds and extensive coastal development provides an unparalleled advantage, allowing for greater creative control and an authentic, undisturbed aesthetic.

The resonances between the world of The Odyssey and these Scottish seafaring communities, however, run far deeper than mere scenery. Moray’s shores are steeped in a rich tapestry of local lore, where legends cling like barnacles to ancient rocks, and superstitions intermingle with real histories of sieges, shipwrecks, and profound tragedies. Take, for instance, the haunting tale of the “Atlantis of the North” at Culbin Sands, the very RSPB nature reserve and forest where Matt Damon’s Odysseus is said to clash with the giant-like Laestrygonians. This wasn’t always a wilderness of shifting sands; a thriving agricultural estate and prosperous village, the Barony of Culbin, stood here until the night of October 27, 1694. A freak sandstorm, described by contemporary accounts as a sudden and violent tempest, buried the entire settlement in a single night, transforming fertile land into an arid desert. Locals, grappling with such an unimaginable disaster, offered explanations rooted in deep-seated beliefs: some blamed a witch’s curse, others pointed to the reckless laird, Alexander Kinnaird, and his supposed bargain with the devil, claiming he had cheated his tenants and incurred divine wrath. This catastrophic event, where an entire world vanished overnight, perfectly mirrors the sudden, brutal destruction wrought by the monstrous Laestrygonians on Odysseus’s fleet, swallowing men and ships whole.

“The lore you hear along this coast is worthy of a Homeric epic,” says Moray-based author and classicist VJ Randle, whose novel The Athenian Murders is itself inspired by Greek mythology. She leads me along a section of the 50-mile Moray Coast Trail, an undulating path that promises both breathtaking views and whispered secrets. Through an early morning Stygian sea-mist, thick and swirling like the River Styx, we set off from the charming fishing village of Hopeman. The sandy footpath weaves between tangles of gorse and heather, their spiky forms and purple blooms adding texture to the ethereal landscape, before we clamber over the rock pools of Clashach Cove to a shadowy opening between the golden sandstone cliffs.

“This cave always reminds me of Calypso’s home,” Randle muses, referring to the nymph’s remote grotto where Odysseus was held captive for seven years. “Although locally, it’s said that a scarier sort of sea-spirit lives here.” She’s talking about the Grin Iron Wife – a terrifying figure of Scottish folklore, depicted as a witch with pale-green skin, rusted-red teeth, and hair of seaweed, who lurks in coastal caves, dragging unsuspecting children and the elderly down to her cold, underwater lair. This chilling local myth, a stark warning of the ocean’s hidden dangers, resonates with the perils and enchantments Odysseus faced, where beautiful facades often concealed deadly traps.

Such tales were once meticulously shared by seanchaidhean – oral historians who served as living libraries, preserving heroic battles, intricate local legends, and detailed clan genealogies. They were to Scottish Gaelic culture what the wandering bards, like Homer himself, were to ancient Greece, crafting and transmitting narratives that defined their communities. This tradition, rich in its lyrical beauty and historical depth, is sadly fading, but local storytellers like Michelle van den Hout of Otherworldly Tales are helping to revive it. Her captivating walking tours introduce visitors to figures with striking parallels to classical mythology, breathing new life into forgotten narratives. Among them is the Scottish creator goddess and giantess, the Cailleach, a titan if ever there was one. Often depicted as a veiled old woman, she is a primordial force, associated with winter, mountains, and the very creation of the landscape. Islands and mountains across Scotland are said to have formed from the rocks that fell from her creel basket as she strode across the land. Then there’s the siren-like Ceasg, a Scottish mermaid, half-woman and half-salmon, whose enchanting song lured sailors to a watery grave, a chilling echo of the Sirens who tempted Odysseus’s crew.

Such tales were never simply about frightening people, van den Hout explains, offering a profound insight into their purpose. “For isolated coastal communities, storytelling was a vital way to pass down lessons about survival, respecting nature, and how to treat strangers. Rather than warning a child with, ‘Careful, that place has a riptide,’ it was more effective and memorable to say that a witch lives there.” These narratives encoded crucial knowledge, imparting wisdom about the treacherous sea, the unforgiving land, and the social contracts necessary for communal survival, much like Homer’s epic taught ancient Greeks about their gods, their heroes, and their place in the world.

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 overlooking granite cottages huddled around a working harbour. This is where The Odyssey’s film crew docked a magnificent 35-metre (115ft) longship last year, its ancient lines a stark contrast against the usual modern fishing vessels, a temporary bridge across millennia. My attention turns to the raised earthworks beneath my feet: these are the remains of one of the largest Pictish forts ever built, a powerful stronghold of an ancient Scottish people. It was tragically burnt down in the 10th century, most likely during a brutal Viking raid, a stark reminder of the historical ebb and flow of invaders and defenders on these shores. The arrival of Nolan’s longship here was not just cinematic; it was a potent historical echo.

Along the neighbouring beach of Roseisle, the vestiges of a more recent, yet equally formidable, history emerge from the sand. Dozens of barnacle-covered concrete blocks and pillboxes are wedged into the sand, half-buried and eroded, like the skeletal ruins of a forgotten civilization. Their weathered forms, hinting at a hidden purpose, bear an uncanny resemblance to the legendary Trojan horse in the movie. But these relics are not ancient; they are part of a vast defensive frontier from the Second World War, when the Moray Firth became a secret training ground for the D-day landings. This legacy continues beneath the waves, where several sunken tanks and amphibious vehicles from the wartime exercises lie preserved, offering a unique and poignant exploration for scuba diving excursions.

Heading further east, the cliffs steepen dramatically, and craggy outcrops have long stirred up stories of metamorphosis and giants. The soaring, 50ft sea-arch of Bow Fiddle Rock, for instance, a natural masterpiece carved by relentless erosion, is locally believed to be a giant that has fallen beneath the waves, with only the edge of his fiddle still visible, and the haunting cries of nesting seabirds its mournful music. Its geological formation, where softer sandstone layers have eroded faster than harder quartzite, creates a visually stunning and mythologically resonant landmark.

A few miles further on, the atmospheric ruins of Findlater Castle cling precariously to a narrow promontory, battered by centuries of storms and human conflict. Befitting its turbulent past, which includes periods of Viking occupation and being besieged by troops loyal to Mary, Queen of Scots, this is where Nolan has chosen to depict the sorceress Circe bewitching Odysseus’s men into swine. The castle’s isolated, formidable position, perched on a cliff edge with waves crashing far below, perfectly embodies the dangerous allure of Circe’s island.

There’s magic on my visit, too, only it erupts from the ocean below. The setting sun is a bronze shield, casting a fiery glow across the uncharacteristically calm sea, when a dozen dorsal fins pierce the surface. Bottlenose dolphins. They’re a regular, cherished sight along these shores, with the Moray Firth proudly home to Europe’s most northerly resident pod, a designated Special Area of Conservation. Minke whales, humpbacks, and even majestic orcas sometimes pass through these rich waters, making this one of the UK’s best cetacean-spotting locations, a truly wild spectacle that connects the present day with the untamed seas of Homeric legend.

As a motor launch scuds across the bay, heading for shore apace as dusk falls, my thoughts turn to homecomings. That, after all, is the enduring essence of The Odyssey, more than any monster or battle. It is the hero’s profound yearning to return, his steadfast wife Penelope anxiously waiting, weaving and unweaving, a symbol of unwavering loyalty. Countless women through the centuries have surely done the same from this very clifftop, staring out to sea, their hearts heavy with hope and fear, for a sign of a familiar sail.

But a visit to Buckie and District Fishing Heritage Centre the following day reveals that the Moray coast’s fishwives were no idle, passive Penelopes. While the menfolk were at sea, braving the treacherous North Sea, these remarkable women were the backbone of the community, performing arduous, essential tasks. They baited thousands of hooks by hand, their fingers calloused and swift, gutted and packed herring with incredible efficiency, and then trudged 13 miles inland to sell their catch, their creels heavy, their resolve unyielding. One faded, sepia photograph in the display is unforgettable: it shows the female fishers, barefoot and skirts hitched, carrying their husbands on their backs through the surf, ensuring the men’s precious boots stayed dry before they boarded their boats. These are, perhaps, the true, unsung heroes of these Scottish shores: not a cunning soldier-king, as Homer would have it, but the stalwart, resilient “fisher lassies,” sharing a sea-swell of stories and ballads as they worked, their lives a testament to strength, community, and an unbreakable bond with the sea.

Where to stay
The Odyssey’s cast and crew made their base at The Seafield Arms in Cullen (doubles from £150). “The production team turned our meeting rooms into a working base for editing the film,” says owner Charles Milne, “while our grand ballroom became a private cinema where Christopher Nolan and the crew watched the day’s footage each evening.” Its meticulously refurbished self-catering accommodation, Bow Cottage, where Matt Damon stayed, has been decked out with ancient Greek-inspired touches and movie memorabilia for visiting fans (sleeps seven from £300 a night, minimum three-night stay). While you’re in Cullen, a charming coastal town known for its dramatic viaduct and stunning beach, browse the shelves at Beinn Books for collections of Scottish folklore or perhaps a translation of Homer’s original, completing the journey from myth to modern interpretation.

How to get there
National rail services run to Inverness and Aberdeen, offering convenient connections to major cities. From these hubs, onward train and bus connections are available to larger coastal towns along the Moray Firth. However, hiring a car is undoubtedly the easiest and most flexible way to reach its more remote and dramatically beautiful beaches, hidden castles, and diverse walking trails, allowing visitors to truly immerse themselves in the epic landscapes that captured the imagination of Christopher Nolan.