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 ephemeral tidal pools, and scaling dunes constantly resculpted by the relentless northern breeze. In this vast, shapeshifting stretch of north-east Scotland’s Moray coast, an elemental landscape where time itself seems fluid, there’s not another soul in sight. The absence of modern markers makes it profoundly easy to shed the contemporary world and imagine the echoes of ancient sagas.

Here, the imagination readily conjures a longship, its dragon prow cutting through the mist, bringing weary warriors ashore, or a band of hulking, man-eating giants marauding from the shadowy woodland. This powerful sense of primeval drama is precisely what captivated acclaimed director Christopher Nolan, leading him to choose this very coastline as a pivotal backdrop for his ambitious adaptation of Homer’s nearly 3,000-year-old Greek epic, The Odyssey. The announcement last summer that Hollywood luminaries such as Matt Damon (as Odysseus), Zendaya, and Tom Holland were descending upon Moray’s quiet beaches and sleepy fishing villages sent ripples of surprise through the local communities, myself included. Scotland, with its rugged, often tempestuous beauty, is not an obvious stand-in for the sun-drenched Mediterranean, the traditional geographical canvas for Odysseus’s arduous journey. Indeed, the film’s other locations—Sicily, Morocco, and the Peloponnese—align more closely with conventional interpretations of the poem’s setting. Moray itself, often overshadowed by the more internationally renowned Isle of Skye or the Highlands’ popular North Coast 500 driving route, has long been one of Scotland’s best-kept secrets, even domestically.

Yet, the more one delves into Moray’s unique character, the more Nolan’s unconventional choice reveals its profound logic. Unfurling due east of Inverness, this coastline is a tapestry of diverse natural features: vast sand dunes that shift with every gale, resilient shingle bars, tranquil pine-edged marshes teeming with wildlife, and dramatic sandstone skerries that rise like ancient monoliths from the sea. This unparalleled variety, combined with its relative anonymity, offers filmmakers a pristine, undeveloped canvas, free from the visual clutter of mass tourism and coastal development – a rare and invaluable asset in an increasingly globalized world. Sources close to the production noted the Moray coast’s "raw, untamed beauty" and its ability to evoke a sense of timelessness, qualities essential for bringing Homer’s epic to life without reliance on extensive CGI. The region’s changeable weather, often shifting from sun-drenched calm to dramatic, brooding skies within hours, further provided a dynamic natural light studio perfectly suited to Nolan’s characteristic visual style.

Beyond mere aesthetics, the resonances between the world of The Odyssey and these Scottish seafaring communities run far deeper than picturesque scenery. Moray’s shores are steeped in a rich tapestry of legends, where ancient superstitions intermingle seamlessly with verifiable histories of sieges, shipwrecks, and tragedies. Take, for instance, the haunting tale of the “Atlantis of the North” at Culbin Sands, now an RSPB nature reserve and forest, where Matt Damon’s Odysseus famously clashes with the giant-like Laestrygonians in the film. This site was once a thriving agricultural estate and village, boasting fertile lands and a prosperous population, until a catastrophic sandstorm in October 1694 buried the entire settlement in a single, terrifying night. Local lore attributes this devastating event either to a powerful witch’s curse, invoked after a dispute, or to the reckless Laird of Culbin’s ill-fated bargain with the devil, sealed with a game of cards. This narrative of a thriving civilization swallowed by the elements, a cautionary tale of hubris and natural power, mirrors the sudden, often brutal, turns of fate that define Odysseus’s journey, where divine wrath and monstrous forces can obliterate mortal endeavors in an instant.

“The lore you hear along this coast is worthy of a Homeric epic,” observes 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 winds through some of the most evocative landscapes. Through an early morning Stygian sea-mist, thick and clinging, we set off from the charming fishing village of Hopeman. The sandy footpath weaves between tangles of resilient gorse and purple heather, their scents mingling with the brine, before we clamber over the slippery, seaweed-draped rock pools of Clashach Cove to a shadowy opening between the towering 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 fearsome witch with pale-green skin, teeth rusted red like old iron, and hair of swirling seaweed, who is said to drag unsuspecting children and the elderly down to her cold, underwater lair. Such vivid, often terrifying, tales were once the domain of seanchaidhean – revered oral historians who preserved heroic battles, local legends, and clan genealogies. They were to Scottish Gaelic culture what the wandering bards, like Homer himself, were to ancient Greece, custodians of collective memory and cultural identity.

This vital tradition, though fading, is being passionately revived by local storytellers like Michelle van den Hout of Otherworldly Tales. Her immersive walking tours introduce visitors to figures from Scottish folklore with striking parallels to classical mythology. There’s the Scottish creator goddess and giantess, the Cailleach, a titan if ever there was one, a formidable ancient being whose very movements shaped the land. Islands and mountains are said to have formed from the rocks that fell from her creel basket as she strode across the land, much like the primordial deities of Greek myth who sculpted the world. Then there’s the siren-like Ceasg, a Scottish mermaid, whose enchanting song lures sailors to a watery grave, a chilling echo of the Sirens of The Odyssey who tempted Odysseus and his men with their irresistible melodies. Van den Hout emphasizes that such tales were never simply about frightening people. “For isolated coastal communities, storytelling was a powerful way to pass down essential lessons about survival, respecting the often-treacherous forces of nature, and how to treat strangers, who could be either saviors or threats,” she explains. “Rather than directly warning a child with, ‘Careful, that place has a dangerous riptide,’ it was often far more effective and memorable to say that a witch lives there, instilling a healthy fear and respect for the sea’s perils.”

Indeed, threats emanating from the North Sea could sometimes be made of flesh and blood. In the historic town of Burghead, I stand on the grassy promontory overlooking stone cottages huddled around a bustling working harbour. This strategic location is where The Odyssey’s film crew dramatically docked a magnificent 35-meter (115ft) longship last year, a stark and anachronistic vessel positioned alongside the usual modern fishing vessels, a striking visual juxtaposition that underscored the film’s blend of ancient and contemporary. My attention is drawn to the raised earthworks beneath my feet: the impressive, albeit partially excavated, remains of one of the largest Pictish forts ever built. This formidable stronghold, a testament to early Scottish power, was burnt down in the 10th century, most likely during a brutal Viking raid – a historical reality that lends a chilling authenticity to the fictional arrival of Odysseus’s ship. The area around Burghead also holds secrets from a more recent conflict. Along the neighbouring beach of Roseisle, dozens of barnacle-covered concrete blocks and pillboxes are wedged in the sand, half-buried, appearing like the scattered ruins of a forgotten civilization – and visually resembling the famed Trojan Horse in the movie. These relics, however, are not ancient; they are part of a vast defensive frontier from the Second World War, when Moray became a highly secretive training ground for the D-Day landings. This profound military legacy continues beneath the waves, where several sunken tanks from these wartime exercises can be explored by adventurous scuba divers, offering a unique glimpse into a hidden history.

Heading further east along the coast, the cliffs steepen dramatically, their craggy outcrops and eroded forms having long stirred up stories of metamorphosis and mythical beings. The soaring, 50-foot sea-arch of Bow Fiddle Rock, for instance, is not merely a geological formation; local legend tells of a giant who has fallen beneath the waves, with only the edge of his fiddle still visible above the surface. The mournful cries of nesting seabirds that inhabit its crevices are said to be its haunting music, a natural symphony that adds another layer to its mythical narrative. Just a few miles further on, the atmospheric ruins of Findlater Castle cling precariously to a narrow promontory, a testament to human resilience against the elements. Befitting its turbulent past – from Viking occupation to being besieged by troops loyal to Mary, Queen of Scots – this dramatic location is where Nolan chose to stage the scene of the sorceress Circe bewitching Odysseus’s men into swine, a setting perfectly embodying the wild magic and treacherous beauty of the ancient world.

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 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 vibrant community of these intelligent marine mammals. Minke whales, colossal humpbacks, and even majestic orcas sometimes pass through these rich waters, making this one of the UK’s premier cetacean-spotting locations. Conservation efforts in the Moray Firth are robust, recognizing the ecological significance of this marine haven.

As a motor launch scuds across the bay, heading for shore apace as dusk falls, my thoughts turn inevitably to homecomings. That, after all, is the enduring essence of The Odyssey, more so than its monsters or battles. It is the hero’s unwavering yearning to return to his beloved Ithaca, his steadfast wife Penelope anxiously waiting. Countless women through the centuries have surely stood on this very clifftop, their gazes fixed on the horizon, staring out to sea for a sign of a familiar sail, their hearts burdened with hope and fear.

However, 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. While the menfolk were at sea, braving the treacherous North Sea, these extraordinary women engaged in back-breaking labour, baiting thousands of hooks by hand with meticulous precision, gutting and packing herring with incredible speed, and trudging 13 miles inland, often barefoot, to sell their heavy catches at market. One faded, sepia photograph in the display is particularly unforgettable: it shows the female fishers, their skirts hitched, carrying their husbands on their backs through the surf, ensuring the men’s precious boots stayed dry before they boarded their boats for long, dangerous voyages. These are, perhaps, the true, unsung heroes of these Scottish shores: not a cunning soldier-king like Homer’s Odysseus, but the stalwart, resilient “fisher lassies,” whose lives were as epic as any poem, sharing a sea-swell of stories and ballads as they worked, their strength and endurance a testament to the indomitable spirit of Moray.

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, a truly surreal experience for us.” Its meticulously refurbished self-catering accommodation, Bow Cottage, where Matt Damon 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 shelves at Beinn Books for fascinating collections of Scottish folklore or perhaps a classic translation of Homer’s original.

How to get there
National rail services run frequently to Inverness and Aberdeen, offering convenient onward train and bus connections to larger coastal towns such as Elgin, Buckie, and Cullen. However, hiring a car is highly recommended as it remains the easiest and most flexible way to reach Moray’s more remote and spectacular beaches, ancient castles, and numerous walking trails, allowing visitors to truly immerse themselves in this unique and mythical landscape.