Why Scotland’s cinematic Moray coast made it a perfect location to shoot The Odyssey

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 absence of human trace allows the imagination to roam unfettered, conjuring visions of a distant past. It’s easy, then, to imagine a longship, its dragon prow cutting through the grey-green swells, bringing weary warriors ashore to an unknown land, or a band of man-eating giants marauding from the dark embrace of the woodland, their colossal forms silhouetted against a brooding sky. Which is exactly what happens here — on screen — in Christopher Nolan’s highly anticipated adaptation of Homer’s epic, The Odyssey.

At first glance, Scotland is not an obvious backdrop for a nearly 3,000-year-old Greek epic, whose imagined geography is traditionally rooted in the sun-drenched Mediterranean. Homer’s poem describes the Ithacan king Odysseus and his men being cast adrift on mysterious, far-flung shores, battling mythical beasts and divine wrath, yet its familiar settings evoke images of olive groves, azure waters, and ancient ruins. Unsurprisingly, classic filming locations for such tales often include the historic coasts of Sicily, the rugged landscapes of Morocco, and the ancient Peloponnese, all of which are indeed used as complementary locations for Nolan’s cinematic vision. Few people who live in Moray, including myself, anticipated Hollywood A-listers like Matt Damon (reportedly cast as Odysseus), Zendaya (perhaps as Circe or Calypso), and Tom Holland (speculated to be Telemachus or a younger crew member) descending on our local beaches and sleepy fishing villages last summer. The Moray coast isn’t even well known domestically, often overshadowed by the dramatic peaks and lochs of the Isle of Skye or the popular North Coast 500 driving route in the Highlands. Its relative obscurity has, ironically, become its greatest asset.

The more I consider it, though, the more Christopher Nolan’s unconventional decision makes profound sense. Known for his meticulous attention to detail, preference for practical effects over CGI, and a desire to ground fantastical narratives in tangible reality, Nolan likely sought a landscape that felt genuinely ancient and untamed. Unfurling due east of Inverness in a series of vast, shifting sand dunes, resilient shingle bars, tranquil pine-edged marshes, and dramatic sandstone skerries, this coastline is both inherently cinematic and unusually varied. Its diverse topography allows for a myriad of distinct environments within a relatively compact area, offering Nolan the flexibility to portray Odysseus’s diverse travails without extensive travel between continents. The crucial absence of mass tourist crowds and pervasive coastal development must have been an unparalleled boon to filmmakers seeking unspoiled, authentic backdrops for a tale set in an age before urban sprawl. This raw, elemental beauty resonates deeply with the wild, unpredictable seas and lands that defined Odysseus’s arduous journey home.

Yet the resonances between the world of The Odyssey and these Scottish seafaring communities run deeper than mere scenery; they are woven into the very fabric of local culture and history. Legends cling like barnacles to Moray’s shores, an intricate tapestry where ancient superstitions intermingle with the real histories of sieges, shipwrecks, and tragedies. Take the eerie tale of the “Atlantis of the North” at Culbin Sands, the RSPB nature reserve and forest where Matt Damon’s Odysseus reportedly clashes with the giant-like Laestrygonians. This location, with its immense, wind-sculpted dunes, perfectly embodies a landscape of both monumental beauty and terrifying power. A thriving agricultural estate and village, complete with a manor house and fertile farmlands, once stood here until 1694, when a freak sandstorm, lasting only a single night, buried the entire settlement under an avalanche of sand. Locals, grappling with such an unimaginable catastrophe, blamed either a malevolent witch’s curse or their reckless laird’s ill-advised bargain with the devil, highlighting a deep-seated belief in supernatural forces shaping their destiny. This sudden, devastating obliteration of a community provides a poignant parallel to the catastrophic events that befall Odysseus and his men, often at the whim of angered gods or monstrous beings. The Laestrygonians, who famously destroyed Odysseus’s fleet and devoured his men, find a chillingly appropriate home in a landscape that itself consumed an entire village.

“The lore you hear along this coast is worthy of a Homeric epic,” asserts Moray-based author and classicist VJ Randle, whose novel The Athenian Murders is itself inspired by Greek mythology. She guides me along a section of the 50-mile Moray Coast Trail, a path that winds through some of the most stunning and historically rich parts of the region. Through an early morning Stygian sea-mist, thick and ethereal, we set off from the charming fishing village of Hopeman, its stone cottages huddled against the elements. The sandy footpath weaves between tangles of resilient gorse and purple heather, their scents mingling with the damp sea air, before we clamber over the slippery, seaweed-strewn rock pools of Clashach Cove to a shadowy opening between towering golden sandstone cliffs.

“This cave always reminds me of Calypso’s home,” Randle muses, referring to the nymph’s secluded 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 chilling figure in local folklore, depicted as a witch with pale-green, sea-bleached skin, rusted-red teeth like ancient iron, and hair made of tangled seaweed. This terrifying entity is said to lurk in the coastal caves and rock formations, dragging unsuspecting children and the elderly down to her cold, underwater lair. While Calypso offered seductive comfort, the Grin Iron Wife embodies the raw, unforgiving danger of the sea, a primal fear that echoes the monstrous encounters in Odysseus’s journey.

Such tales were once shared by seanchaidhean — the revered oral historians who were central to Scottish Gaelic culture. These skilled storytellers preserved the memory of heroic battles, local legends, and intricate clan genealogies, ensuring the continuity of cultural identity across generations. They were to Scottish Gaelic society what the wandering bards, like Homer himself, were to ancient Greece, crafting and reciting narratives that shaped understanding of the world and their place within it. It’s a fading tradition in modern Scotland, but one that local storytellers like Michelle van den Hout of Otherworldly Tales are passionately helping to revive. Her immersive walking tours introduce figures with striking parallels to classical mythology, breathing new life into these ancient narratives. She speaks of the Scottish creator goddess and giantess, the Cailleach, a titan if ever there was one, whose immense power is said to have formed islands and mountains from the very rocks that tumbled from her creel basket. Her colossal scale and elemental force directly mirror the primordial power of the Titans and Cyclopes in Greek myth. Then there’s the siren-like Ceasg, a Scottish mermaid whose enchanting, melancholic song lures unsuspecting sailors to a watery grave, a clear echo of Homer’s Sirens whose irresistible melodies promised knowledge but delivered only death.

Such tales were never simply about frightening people, van den Hout explains with a knowing smile. “For isolated coastal communities, storytelling was a powerful way to pass down crucial lessons about survival, respecting nature’s formidable power, and how to treat strangers.” She elaborates, “Rather than warning a child with, ‘Careful, that place has a dangerous riptide,’ which might be quickly forgotten, it was far more effective to say that a witch lives there, instilling a healthy, memorable caution.” This pragmatic function of myth-making underscores the deep connection between folklore and the harsh realities of life by the sea, a connection that would have been equally potent in the world of Odysseus.

Threats coming from the North Sea could sometimes be made of flesh and blood, of course, a stark reminder of the region’s turbulent history. In the historic town of Burghead, I stand on the grassy promontory overlooking stone cottages huddled around a working harbour, where the everyday rhythm of fishing boats continues. This is where The Odyssey’s film crew docked a magnificent 35-metre (115ft) longship last year, its ancient design a stark contrast to the modern fishing vessels, a striking tableau that momentarily blurred the lines of time. My attention, however, is drawn to the raised earthworks beneath my feet: the impressive remains of one of the largest Pictish forts ever built in Scotland. This formidable stronghold, a testament to the advanced engineering of the Picts, was tragically burnt down in the 10th century, most likely during a brutal Viking raid. The sight of the replica longship, juxtaposed with the remnants of a fort destroyed by similar vessels, creates a powerful echo of ancient conflicts and the constant perils of maritime existence, much like the relentless warfare and perilous voyages faced by Odysseus.

Along the neighbouring beach of Roseisle, a haunting panorama unfolds. Dozens of barnacle-covered concrete blocks and pillboxes are wedged in the sand, half buried by the shifting dunes, resembling the crumbling ruins of a forgotten civilization — and indeed, strikingly similar to the massive, deceptive Trojan horse depicted in Nolan’s film. But these relics are not ancient; they are part of a vast defensive frontier from the second world war, when the Moray coast became a secret training ground for the D-Day landings. This strategic importance speaks to the region’s enduring significance in times of conflict. This legacy continues beneath the waves, where several sunken tanks and other wartime machinery from these intense exercises can be explored on unique scuba diving excursions, offering a submerged glimpse into a more recent but equally dramatic past.

Heading further east, the coastline transforms once more. The cliffs steepen dramatically, and craggy outcrops, sculpted by millennia of wind and waves, have long stirred up stories of metamorphosis and mythical beings. The soaring, 50ft sea-arch of Bow Fiddle Rock, for instance, is not merely a geological wonder but, according to local legend, the petrified remains of a giant that has fallen beneath the waves, only the edge of his fiddle still visible above the surface. The haunting cries of nesting seabirds swirling around it are said to be its mournful music, adding a poignant, ethereal layer to the landscape.

A few miles further on, the stark, evocative ruins of Findlater Castle cling precariously to a narrow promontory, battered by the elements and isolated by sheer drops. Befitting its own turbulent past, which includes periods of Viking occupation and being besieged by troops loyal to Mary, Queen of Scots, this dramatic locale is where Nolan has chosen to film the sorceress Circe bewitching Odysseus’s men into swine. The castle’s rugged, isolated beauty and its history of conflict and transformation make it an ideal setting for Circe’s potent magic, embodying both enchantment and peril.

There’s magic on my visit, too, only it erupts not from ancient curses but from the ocean below. The setting sun casts a magnificent bronze shield across the horizon, and the sea is uncharacteristically calm, reflecting the sky in a mirror-like expanse, when suddenly, 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. Their playful acrobatics and graceful movements are a living testament to the wild beauty of this coast. Minke whales, humpbacks, and even majestic orcas sometimes pass through, too, making this one of the UK’s best cetacean-spotting locations, a truly awe-inspiring natural spectacle that could easily inspire tales of sea gods and benevolent spirits.

A motor launch scuds across the bay, heading for shore apace as dusk falls, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and purple. My thoughts turn inevitably to homecomings. That, after all, is the enduring essence of The Odyssey, more than its monsters or battles. It is the hero’s profound yearning to return, the steadfastness of his wife Penelope anxiously waiting, the universal human desire for belonging. Countless women through the centuries have surely done the same from this very clifftop, their eyes fixed on the horizon, staring out to sea for a sign of a familiar sail, their hearts a mixture of hope and trepidation.

But a visit to the Buckie and District Fishing Heritage Centre the following day reveals that the Moray coast’s fishwives were no idle, passive Penelopes. Their lives were defined by immense strength and relentless toil. While the menfolk were at sea, battling the North Sea’s unpredictable moods, these formidable women performed back-breaking labour: they baited thousands of hooks by hand, their fingers calloused and raw; they gutted and packed mountains of herring, ensuring the catch was preserved; and then, with incredible stamina, they trudged 13 miles inland, often barefoot, to sell their heavy baskets of fish at market. One faded, sepia photograph in the display is unforgettable: it shows these female fishers, barefoot and with skirts hitched up, carrying their husbands on their backs through the surf to their boats, ensuring the men’s precious boots stayed dry before they embarked on their dangerous voyages. These are, perhaps, the true heroes of these Scottish shores: not a cunning soldier-king like Odysseus, as Homer would have it, but the stalwart, unsung “fisher lassies,” embodying resilience, community spirit, and an indomitable will, sharing a sea-swell of stories and ballads as they worked, their own epic tales woven into the fabric of the Moray coast.

Where to stay
The Odyssey’s cast and crew made their base at The Seafield Arms in Cullen, a beautifully restored coaching inn that blends historic charm with modern luxury (doubles from £150). “The production team turned our meeting rooms into a working base for editing the film,” says owner Charles Milne, clearly proud of the hotel’s role in the blockbuster. “Our grand ballroom, with its high ceilings and elegant decor, became a private cinema where Christopher Nolan and the crew watched the day’s footage each evening, often discussing scenes late into the night.” For fans hoping to walk in the footsteps of a Hollywood legend, the hotel’s refurbished self-catering accommodation, Bow Cottage, where Matt Damon stayed, has been thoughtfully decked out with ancient Greek-inspired touches and movie memorabilia. It offers a unique blend of comfort and cinematic history, sleeping seven from £300 a night (minimum three-night stay). While you’re in Cullen, be sure to browse the shelves at Beinn Books, a charming independent bookshop, for collections of Scottish folklore and local history, or perhaps a classic translation of Homer’s original epic to deepen your appreciation of Moray’s newfound connection to ancient Greece.

How to get there
National rail services run to Inverness and Aberdeen, with onward train and bus connections to larger coastal towns such as Elgin, Forres, and Buckie. While public transport offers a glimpse into the region, hiring a car is undoubtedly the easiest and most flexible way to explore Moray’s more remote and stunning beaches, ancient castles, and intricate walking trails, allowing visitors to truly immerse themselves in this captivating, mythical landscape at their own pace. The drive itself, particularly along the coastal roads, offers breathtaking views and a sense of journeying to a truly special, untouched corner of Scotland.