At the Borris Festival of Writing and Creative ideas this year, the wonderful Ocean Vong (a Vietnamese/American poet and writer) described language as being a form of gravity; once you are in it, you can never get out of it. Personally, for me, that gravity is best described as honey, I am always in a constant wrangle with the sticky stuff, but yes, it is the use of words at Borris that is the most pulsating, exciting, and vibrant of commodities on offer at the Festival.

Ocean Vong also talked beautifully about the accountability of writing and, indeed, accountability was an issue that came up a lot in the festival. It was raised by the foreign correspondents, Fergal Keane, Orla Guerin, Lyse Doucet as well as writers like Sinead Gleeson, and Afua Hirsch, Lemn Sissay and Peter Frankopan.  I also listened to Kai Strittmatter and Isobel Hilton discussing Dictatorship (in China), and Misha Glenny talking about the increasing power of the microchip and the few nations who control its production. As the years roll past at Borris, the concerns about accountability and democracy become more and fraught.

Fortunately, the organisers provide choices and if you don’t feel like discovering that the ‘end is nigh’, you can go and listen to Lemn Sissay, who is boyant, positive, clever and thought provoking or Ruby Wax or just wonder around, go and get a drink and enjoy the general craic. Sometimes at Borris you need to just take time out and listen to the general hubbub of what’s going on around you.

The Borris festival is set in the wonderful grounds of a stately home and the food trucks are a delicious mix of wholesome: Indian snacks, burritos, ice cream, lobster. It is definitely cool and clever. The wooden toilets use sawdust, and general waste is recycled. The speakers are intelligent and thoughtful; they are journalists, poets, novelists, musicians, educationalists, and policy makers who debate concepts, creativity, world events, wars, climate change, and power. These speakers are then reflected in its listening audience who are also mainly over fifty, white, journalists, writers, educators, and policy makers. This is the festival’s main downfall, but I have been going to Borris for nearly ten years and each year I leave buzzing with bonhomie, knowledge, and the joy of mixing with other interested and engaged people. Also, every year I meet yet another person I know!

The stand out session for me this year was listening to Lemn Sissay, Sally Phillips (Comedien and Actress) and her son, Olly Bermejo. The whole room laughed, danced, and wept listening to the three of them talk about the ups and downs of being different. It was brilliant, emotional, funny, shocking, engaging and joyous: they described the cruel and barbaric behaviour experienced by young children at the hands of carers and adults. Sally moved the room to tears as she described the love, work and endeavor of mothers with disabled children yet it was so up-lifting at the end when Sally’s son, Olly, sang Will You Marry Me by Jason Derulo. We all stood up and joined in, dancing and waving our hands.

I also enjoyed Colm Toibin talking about his new book, Long Island. While I enjoy his books, occasionally, I have found Colm Toibin to be a little arrogant, but this time I found him gentle, and humorous. I also loved listening to Kevin Barry reading his new book The Heart of Winter. He has a wonderfully expressive face and a superb reading voice. I think I might have to get it on audible. He was on with Ye Vagabonds who are a band from Carlow. I don’t want to sound patronising, but they were such gorgeous, young men with no pretensions.

I also enjoyed listening to Simon Armitage, the current English Poet Laureate. He has a lovely, ironic sense of humour and his poems are humorous and moving. Olivia O’Leary is also a lovely interviewer and she got him to read some gorgeous poems and describe the challenges of his work as poet laureate i.e. writing poems for the great occasions. I loved how he described poetry writing as being a challenge and the poem then being the solution. He found ‘a way into the coronation’ poem by writing a poem which imagined his mum sitting among the great and the good.

Overall and finally, it has to be Lemn Sissay who was my favourite. I loved his humour, his attitude, his love of life and indeed also his book of quatrains, Let the Light Pour in. His general philosophy of life, and his wisdom was a tonic and I was delighted when I was able, just before I left, to give him a big, big hug. Lemn, I love you. (He’ll like that!)

I love the month of May! The days start to dress themselves in a glory of colour: each oak, beech, or birch tree introducing a different shade of green at the tips of her branches; the sky colour skips between the various hues of blue and white, clouds bounce around, burgeoned with feathers and fluff, and occasionally become kippered pink in the light stretch in the evenings. And, then, in Ireland, this year we were graced with the wonder of the Northern Lights (though they didn’t preen themselves in my garden). Yes, in May, Spring bubbles up, shakes herself out in tangy Hawthorn blossom and dances her way to the last day…my birthday! On the 31st, I always wake up and stretch out in bed, feeling just a little bit special.

This year, I have already enjoyed the month of May immensely. I had been jolted out of the winter blues in April by visits to Oxford and Cornwall, where my oldest and dearest friends and I saluted and celebrated each other and our friendships of nearly fifty years (see earlier blogs). And this vein of pleasure continued. On my return, Jerry and I went to Donegal to stay at the beautiful Castle Grove Hotel on the banks of Lough Swilly for a few days. Our room was only gorgeous, a delightful shade of lilac with lovely views across the gardens, down to the lough. It was the friendliest, most welcoming hotel I have ever been in. It felt like I was staying with new friends. The roaring fire in the yellow room each evening was served with chatty glass of ruby red tempranillo wine and the food was truly delicious.

I am sure I don’t need to wax lyrical to ye about the beauty of Donegal. The county has everything: mountains, beaches, forests, plains, bustling towns but I do want to mention Oatfield Park near Raphoe. This is a brilliant place for children and their companions. You follow a trail (or go on a little train – particularly good for grandpas and those with little legs) which takes you around playgrounds, follies, sculptures, fairy enclaves, wishing trees, castles, a maze (I never found the centre and got freaked out by almost never finding the exit). It is private, so you have to pay to get in, but I absolutely loved it.

We came back to Cavan from Donegal to the few days of Irish summer…and the Cavan Festival in Con Smith Park. Hats off to the artists, musicians, the actors, acrobats, the cyclists, and the entertainers who made the festival such a brilliant success. One of my oldest friends happened to be in town for the Boss (not Cavan town, I hasten to add) but Cork and Dublin and she came to visit us between times. She and granddaughter, Aine, whom I was looking after for the weekend, both enjoyed the delights of Con Smith park. And I did too, much more than I would have Bruce Springsteen. It takes all sorts!!! So, thank you Cavan for providing all of us with such brilliant entertainment!

The following week I headed off to Limerick to visit Joe. I do love Limerick. I did all my favourite things…ate delicious ramen at Taikichi, walked Pops around Cratloe woods, went to the garden centre, pottered in Joe’s garden, had breakfast at the Locke Bar (best breakfast in Limerick), went to a fab exhibition in Ormston House, (loved the work by Ursula Burke), had a few pints in Crew, drove to the sea, had a lovely walk along the beach in Lahinch, visited the new Salmon bookshop in Enistymon (definitely worth going), and on the way back, we visited Ennis which is a lovely town and is next on my list of places to live!!!

On Saturday, we bought delicious pies and interesting salads in the Milk Market and ate them for supper! Next time I am going to get the Shepherds Pie pie which is Shepherds Pie in a Pie. Can you imagine?

So, until now, May has been lovely. And, of course, the birthday is still to come! I’m thinking an outing…I’ll let you know.

Ginger parkin, date and apple bites

nibbled at night, pale ales, gorgeous fish pie

drunk with a Portuguese red wine

giant green olives, one Megrim Sole

served on a plate with oregano

deep fried potatoes and spiced salt

fried boxty and eggs with tomatoes

homemade lemon curd spread on toast

red berry jam on crusty baguette

cheese sarnies mixed with sand from the beach

Cornish pasty, vanilla Cornish ice cream

Madame Bovary performed on the cliffs

turquoise oceans, white beaches

baked potatoes with Cornish crab

blue bells, white thorn, pink buds

A Homity Pie I took home!

Fifty years of friendship is a fine thing. It’s like an ancient Constable painting: the colours are possibly a little muted, the canvas is probably a little wrinkled, but the trees are still green, the sky embraces the light behind the clouds, and black oxen are still being driven through the mill pond.

Actually, choosing a Constable painting as a simile works because the landscape is not too different from the countryside around Oxford which is where I have just returned from visiting my old friend, Ruth. Myself, Ruth and Maria shared a flat in Norwich at University back in the day, and then Ruth and I lived together for ten years afterwards in London. Watching and listening to Ruth this weekend was like staring at a much loved painting. Her gesticulations, her patterns, her flows are so familiar to me that I felt very at home in her life even though her every day is so different to mine, living in Cavan.

I was really fortunate with the weather. Oxford was drenched in sunshine and warmth. The glittering leaves of the sixty-foot weeping silver birch outside my bedroom window almost blinded me in the morning. The tulips stood, orange and red, proud and tall, amongst blue bells, sweet rocket, sage as we sat outside for our tea. The may blossom was just beginning to flower as we cycled along the river. In the evening, our meals were full of home grown swiss chard, parsley, sage, garlic, mint and beans. Maria joined us on Saturday, and we walked along the river to The Perch, and I lunched on ox cheeks and for dessert had a ginger pudding with vanilla.

Oxford is a gorgeous mix of country and town. The river walks, the meadows, the parks, the punting, and the landscaped gardens are beautiful. The spires, towers, the golden stone, the churches, colleges, the arched wooden portals where one peeps through and catches glimpses of grassed squares…it all combines to create a feeling of lost romance.

The three of us walked and talked of difficult relationships, our families: children, parents, brothers, sisters as, indeed, we have done for fifty years. I used to think that we would learn how to deal with our emotions, understand them better, learn how to smooth over the issues, but instead, over the years, they have kept on coming with different angles. Now, we have got used to accommodating and living with them but sharing them always helps. Old friends are like poems, they help you to express and understand what you feel.

Our nights of wild drinking and dancing are gone. A glass of wine with our dinner sufficed. In the early evenings, as Ruth cooked the produce from her garden, we shared poems, talked of favourite pod casts, and only touched on our fears about Gaza, Sudan, Trump and artificial intelligence, for these are things we cannot absorb. Then, both exhausted, we retired at 9ish to our beds, to our books, our radio, our wordle puzzles. It was a wonderful time.

Mucus and phlegm played starring roles in our family holiday last weekend in Sligo. Daughter, Roisin, and I spluttered throughout our stay at the foot of Ben Whisken, in tune with howling wind, rainbow studded sprays of rain and yellow bangs of sunshine (typical Sligo weather). However, Baby A (Aine) was the principal star of the weekend, blowing huge, lovely, green snot bubbles and smearing all our clothes as we picked her up for cuddles. Following her snot studded performances, Roisin and myself competed for longest, loudest, most incessant coughing or sneezing fits thereby forcing all dinner time conversation into minute bite sized sentences. Actually, at 3am on Friday night, as I sat up in bed to enable the phlegm to get better access up the windpipe, the coughing led to me being able to briefly admire a beautiful, nearly full, white moon hanging in the wind-lashed bare branches of a silver birch outside my bedroom window. But sadly, I was in no fit state for poetry, so it stayed a lone image. However, the weekend turned into a poem itself.

It started with snow on the Friday morning…seven inches of it in Cavan (Jerry measured it with a ruler). It looked and sounded beautifully silent, but I wasn’t sure about driving in it. However all was fine. The worst part was our own front yard…that was the only place I skidded. In the evening, we all arrived safely from our different starting points and settled into in our beautiful Airbnb.  We began by drinking champagne to celebrate the successful completions of PHDs, Masters, and Yoga Guru courses by the younger generation, then ate delicious fish pie cooked by yours truly and safely transported across the wilds of Ireland.

The kitchen/sitting room had a picture window overlooking the snow-capped mountains, and comfy window seats where you could stretch out and gaze into the landscape. It was the perfect place for peace and relaxation…until someone started coughing or someone else suggested doing something at the same time as another family member now thought it would be a good time to…you know what families are like.

However, we all succeeded in doing what we wanted or what we could, given the constraints of babies, weather, and sickness. Some of us slept, some walked the Benbulben Forest Walk, others chased the waves on Streedagh beach. We all drove around the Gleniff Horseshoe (in a Toyota convoy) had coffee at the Koffee Kart and we all went to the Cliffony Market and brought homemade marmalade, elderflower cordial and seaweed to cook and eat to get rid of our chest infections. We all had a lovely lunch in a local restaurant where Aine made a few tours of the tables, holding hands with whomever offered her one, to show off her brand new walking techniques.

In fact, we all had a lovely time though I was in bed at 7.30pm as soon as I got home on Sunday. It was very nice to be able to cough, splutter and sneeze as much as I wanted in peace and to have no one compete with me!

Street trams (from the 50s and noughties), clocks, castles, churches, towers, turrets, palaces, bridges, museums, art galleries and restauraces (restaurants) were the order of my stay in Prague last week…plus a lot of steps. I discovered a new impressionist, Alexandr Onishenko who paints on a black canvas, and who after he sells a painting, prints the original and repaints the same strokes to make the painting again! I also loved the exhibition of Banksy work which was cleverly put together in a very old and massive empty church.

My son, Joe and I were in Prague for three days. We arrived from Dublin at 10am on Wednesday (2am bus from Cavan) and left at 3am Saturday and made good use of our time, ending up at a Brutus (you may well ask) gig in a Prague cavern on Friday night along with 300 other old rockers of my years! The keyboard player was an old fella with a humped back, long flowing grey hair and beard. He seemed to be the sound engineer too. They played covers but in Czech, and everyone pumped the air and danced. It is very strange how difficult it is to remember the name of a song you know well when it is sung in a different language…particularly after a few drinks.

Prague is very beautiful, full of magnificent buildings, squares, cobbled streets and wide, grand avenues. We were lucky enough to have no rain and even some sunshine, so walking and exploring was a pleasure. The Vltava river wends its way through the city, under the famous Charles Bridge which was a bit of a nightmare so we stared at it from a distance, usually from a great height. Prague Castle, which overlooks the city, isn’t just a building, it’s a small town, wedged with palaces, basilicas, houses, law courts with the gothic/baroque St Vitus Cathedral (it took 600 years to build) centre stage with the ubiquitous cafes and restaurants everywhere in between. There are 240 steps up to the Castle…but it was worth it. After the castle, we made a last minute decision to go to the petit Eiffel Tower on the opposite hill. It took me nearly an hour to climb up there…but again it was worth it, and I loved the mirror maze next door. It reminded me that the way I look could be worse!

The clunky mechanical clicks and ticks of the Astronomical Clock of the Old Town Hall with the figure of Death ringing his bell, the Philosopher, the Miser, and the Vain man amongst many other characters popping out to parade on the hour is pretty cool. However, the old square itself is a bit of a nightmare. I can’t imagine what it must be like in the height of the tourist season.

Another museum we went to that I loved was the Illusion Art Museum. Apparently, there was a Fantastical Illusion Art Museum too but we didn’t get there. There is no better gleeful delight for my inner child (definitely striding back into form in my third age) than seeing Joe at the end of my hand, standing on a chair. Or seeing a boring two dimensional painting turn into a raging three dimensional animal or seeing a messy floor of toys turn into a face. I was in my element.

In terms of Czech food, we bit into real cake, strudel, sausage, pickle, and goulash in the cafes and pubs. The beer was good and we tasted lovely craft beers, even one made by the monks at the Strahov Monastery on our way down from the Castle. On our first evening, we went to a Katmandhu restaurant and had an excellent and very cheap curry. On our second evening, we went to a small middle eastern restaurant, Habibi’s, and had a platter of Jordanian dishes which were truly excellent. Habibi means sweetie, by the way. For our last supper, so to speak, on the recommendation of a friend of Joe’s from Prague living in Limerick, we went North of the city. After visiting the Contemporary Art Museum (which had a very alarming, rather scary Kafka exhibition but also an interesting wooden blimp construction hanging over its rooftop) we went to the rather fab Cross Club. We hadn’t been able to get tickets to the gig but we had excellent pizza and cocktails before going back uptown to see Brutus.

It was lovely to wander around with Joe (he is witty, and a brilliant navigator, I don’t know where he gets it from) and enjoy the city, the art, the museums, the drinks and the food. Prague is similar to Riga where we visited en famille last year in its Eastern European vibe. However, it is much more touristy and reminded me of a giant toy town. I did love the small convenience stores that were dotted around. As in Riga, they were stuffed with everything you could possibly need ranging from tooth brushes, hoovers to packets of rice.

Finally, I loved travelling by tram in Prague. They were very frequent, on time, and made trips across town really easy. You got on one, got off elsewhere, got on another from the same stop, got off again, got on another (if you wanted) and arrived exactly where you wanted to be without taking a step! Excellent stuff. However, thinking back on it, Joe might have facilitated this wonderful experience! It was a brilliant Christmas present. Thank you, Joe.

Our Christmas tree was thin and rather ragged this year, but without the grown-up children to interfere, I was able to decorate it with gold tinsel, gold bells, silver and gold baubles and the interesting home-made decorations by besties, Martin and Kobi. These include a polished oyster shell and homemade tiny woolly hat…so, in the end, in Mid December, I liked my Christmas tree very much which was a good start. Odd to think now that the tree is already shorn, needleless and out by the bins. When Christmas is over, it’s really over.

Unfortunately, that excellent beginning was upset by Roisin having to go into hospital to have her appendix out so she was in some pain during the festivities but Aine was in great form, sticking her tongue out, edging her way around the coffee table, lunging for any mobile phone left lying around, throwing fruit around, pulling all the books out of the bookshelves, all the time smiling that gappy, toothless smile of hers.

I love to have family around, whatever the time of year and in whatever frame of mind or body. I love having the craic, cooking together and, of course, at Christmas, giving gifts.

For the last few years, Christmas’ have been harder to celebrate…set against the scenery of wars or civil wars, plagues, streams of refugees, political upheaval. However, each year, we manage to set our backs resolutely against the backdrop which does seem rather uncharitable, and unchristian, but what else can you do?

Talking of unchristian, this Christmas I was listening to Alistair Campbell and Rory Stewart on their Leading podcast interviewing Tom Holland about his book Dominion.  He was saying that people in the West, whether religious or not, are basically Christian because Christian values dominate in the West. This is an argument I have tentatively put forward (though I think, in fairness, not 700 pages worth) in my discussions with my Catholic friends about my non religious background. Just because I am not religious, doesn’t mean I don’t have ‘Christian’ values but I am pretty sure these values are probably the central tenets of Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, and Buddhism as well.

Oddly enough, it turns out that the book ‘Skippy Dies’ by Irish author, Paul Murray, that I am reading at the moment is also about 700 pages. You can never tell when you are reading on the kindle. I was enjoying it at the start. Set in a boy’s boarding school in Dublin, it describes the daily life of both pupils and teachers (priests and secular) in an insightful and humorous way. Paul Murray is a good writer, brilliant at description, with delightful similes or metaphors. In this book, he captures the boarding school ethos well, and at first his characters are innocent and harmless. He made me smile with their boyish and male escapades but as the year passes their vulnerabilities are abused by everyday life, and their experiences become violent and the book becomes almost unpleasant. It’s a clever reflection of our society at the moment. I find it impressive…to be able to write a story which recognisably encapsulates the collapse of society in 700 pages!  At the moment, I can only read a bit at a time for it is too much. Then, I have to put it down to do something else. I am interested in how it will end. Will he be able to do something with it? Can Paul Murray create hope for us all? (yes, he does).

It’s been a joy having my son, Joe around for the whole of the festive period. He walks Pops with me most days, and tramping along in the wind and rain, we discuss the different aspects of the world’s disintegration: the frightening rise in right wing leaders /dictators in Hungary, Holland, Argentina, India, China, Venezuela, or the crazy wars in Ukraine, Sudan, Mali, Gaza. We have decided to boycott American products as Biden continues to make emergency payments to Israel, bypassing congress. It won’t make much of a difference, I said. Maybe not, he answered, but it means we are doing something. So, I am investigating what American products I invest in. It is mainly the communications sector. I will try not to buy any new Apple products or books from Amazon (I have signed up with Kobo e-books for my kindle purchases). Netflix is part of my Sky platform…which, although is a division of American outfit, Comcast, is British. Fortunately, I don’t subscribe to any other platform (Prime, Disney etc). So, that will be one of my new year resolutions. The other is to write every day, so for good or bad, you may be hearing more from me!

Happy New Year, everybody, do with it what you can.

Last Tuesday, I went over for the funeral of a very dear friend of mine in the North of England. I had worked with him in the 80s. I blogged earlier in the year, after a visit to Antrim, about how Northern Ireland no longer engaged my feelings of attachment, but I always thought that I would feel at home ‘at home’ so to speak, but no. After thirty years living in Ireland, and attending this funeral in England, I now definitely feel more Irish than English.

Of course, I didn’t really want to be at the funeral of my dear old friend but I was pleased to visit York as I had never been to the city. It was beautiful: narrow cobbled lanes, with fine Georgian and Edwardian architecture and we were lucky to have glorious sunshine. I wandered along the lovely river Ouse, and enjoyed the hues of the autumnal leafy tree lined streets. There were cafes, restaurants, pubs, markets, quality shops, art galleries, museums, and beautifully maintained parks. York is, no doubt, (to steal the strap of my own alma mater) a fine city, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

I went to Patrick’s funeral because he was a very good friend and he was Irish. Obviously, in Ireland, funerals are an important part of the community. However, going was a mistake. I wasn’t part of this English community. Obviously, I knew Patrick’s wife from back in the day, but we were not close. He and his girls had visited us in Ireland when he visited his mother, but they wouldn’t remember as they were too small. He and I met up most times when he came to Ireland (he did the MA in Writing in Limerick in 2015), but generally we met alone and gossiped. Last Thursday, I was pleased to see that the church was full (which the PP commented on) but it felt like a staged production. All the men were dressed formally in suits, and it felt like something out of The Gilded Age. The ‘wake’ after Patrick was cremated was crowded with people nibbling tortilla crisps dipped in chili sauce and avocado, and small roasted green peppers and there was little mixing between the groups of twos and threes. I felt totally out of place and after greeting his wife, I made my excuses and left.

Now, I’m glad to be home for a while.

Still can’t get photos.

Having left Greece, I had a one day turn around in Cavan, and then headed back to the airport to meet Roisin, Jack and granddaughter, Aine, and fly off to Estapone, near Malaga in Spain. After a delayed flight, we headed out into the darkness to eat and were greeted by brilliant coloured flowers, pretty narrow cobbled lanes hanging with bougainvillea and jasmine, and, I want to say ‘succulent’ water features because they almost assaulted the senses as they splashed and sparkled in an array of blues, pinks, yellows and reds. In daylight the old town is as lovely…pots of hanging flowers adorn the white painted houses, and there are gorgeous statues and art scattered around the place and the water features are lovely. The tiles and cobblestones glisten underfoot and this morning, on my morning constitutional, they were filled with children holding hands on their way to school.

From our large, light, spacious (if rather soulless) apartment, the laughter of children outside drifted up from a school playground (a large yard, full of pitches, and painted circles.) In both Spain and Greece, schools are attractive places where the children seem to be cheerful and enjoying themselves, while in Ireland and England they are rather grim, concrete buildings, that look rather like prisons. We could learn from our European colleagues. Anyway, one morning, from our balcony, I watched a class of six year olds play a game where one boy stood in the centre while the others gathered in a circle around him. He performed various actions and they copied him, then he ran off and chased them all. They gathered again in a circle with another child in the middle and then caught sight of me and shouted ola and waved. I waved back. The teacher arrived, so I waved at her too. Then the kids started waving again at me. I scratched my head. They scratched their heads, so I waved both my arms, and they waved both their arms, I clapped, and they clapped. I turned around and so did they. I took a bow and they took a bow…it was such fun!

Estapone is definitely a child centred place. People actually took the time to stop and chat with Aine (though I should say that she is full of the most wonderful smiles which she flashes liberally around the place). There was a fantastic, imaginative playground on the prom aimed at various age groups. And spending Halloween in Estapone was great fun. Everyone (adults too) dressed up and witches and axe heads and monsters milled about the old town streets, going into the shops to trick and treat.

What was also impressive about Estapone was the number of people zooming around in wheelchairs. The prom is a wonderful place to walk; it’s flat, smooth full of gardens and flowers. The old town is more hilly but where there are steps, there are usually ramps too. Pots of flowers and flower bushes run amok, but they are hanging and don’t impede a pram or a wheelchair. It was very easy to get about.

I think chasing dolphins was a favourite part of the holiday. The captain of the boat and his wife were really welcoming. They followed a band of birds flying above the waves and she clicked her tongue and whistled. Suddenly there they were, a flock of dolphins leaping around the boat, playing beneath it, performing synchronised jumps. It was as if they were performing just for us. It was very exciting and truly magical.

Overall, I had a lovely week milling around with my beautiful daughter and Jack, her fiance. I loved the orchid museum full of fantastic flowers and plants but actually, Aine was my favourite part of the holiday…she is a bundle of joy and there is no better tonic than the laugh of a baby.

Still having trouble with photos…its taken me an hour to get three up as the majority of my photos are being saved as HEIC instead of jpeg which means I can’t use them here.