Huddled around a campfire on a late evening in early May, we clutched glasses of 12-year-old Bowman’s single malt. The whiskey was both a shield against the creeping frost and a reward for a day spent paddling the Trent at Bleasby. As the flames flickered, our conversation meandered into the realm of the bizarre.

"Peppered fries, now that’s a thing," I mused. "Fuck off," Mark and Jimi, my kayaking comrades, retorted in unison. "No, seriously, hear me out," I insisted.

Rewind to my comprehensive school days in Pencoed, a quaint town in South Wales. I was the kingpin of two modest enterprises: selling single cigarettes for 10p and lunch tickets for £1.50 each. School dinners were surprisingly palatable back then, and my lunch ticket business thrived.

Post-business dealings, we'd swagger up the road to the local café for lunch, indulging in our penchant for dining out. The café, a quirky fusion of Italian and Welsh cuisine, offered a special - a bowl of rich, homemade tomato soup with a side of French fries, all for just a quid.

The soup was divine, but I've always been one to jazz up my meals. The only table condiment was a shaker of black pepper, which led me to experiment with the fries.

"Nooo!" Gwyn, a local, cried out in horror. "You don’t put pepper on fries, you bellend!"

Unfazed by peer pressure and lacking salt and vinegar, I thought, "Fuck it, cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!" - a line I fondly remembered, having once used it to rile up my English literature teacher, Mr. Johnson.

Speaking of Mr. Johnson, I was never the model student in his class. Despite barely touching my GCSE coursework, I aced the final exam on Shakespeare’s 'Julius Caesar,' having crammed the entire play the night before. “You’re a fucking waster, Thomas!” Mr. Johnson had exclaimed in disbelief as he handed back our papers.

Back in the café, with all eyes on me, I seasoned the fries with a generous amount of pepper. In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought, rebelliously shaking the pepper.

I grabbed a handful of the now-spiced fries and popped them into my mouth. The boys awaited my reaction, expecting regret. Instead, the pepper's heat perfectly complemented the fries' natural saltiness. "Wow!" I exclaimed, munching through another handful, "It's bloody delicious!"

The boys, their jaws dropped in disbelief, exchanged glances of amazement before hesitantly following suit, peppering their own fries.

Fast forward to the present, around the campfire, a silence of contemplation hung in the air as I concluded my tale. Jimi passed the Bowman’s around, and I tossed another log into the fire. Moments later, Mark chimed in, “Nah, I still don’t reckon it’s a thing.”

A couple of months later, during an August heatwave, our kayaking adventures brought us back to the campsite. Defiantly, we had built a fire despite the campsite's strict 'no fires' rule. Safety was our alibi – flat stone slabs beneath our metal fire pit and a 5-gallon water bottle on standby for emergencies.

That night, warmed by a bottle of 12-year-old Balvenie Doublewood, our conversations took yet another whimsical turn. Mark broke the silence, "You know, I’ve tried peppered fries." Eagerly, I asked, "And?"

He paused, then admitted, "It’s amazing. You were right. Peppered fries... it’s most definitely a thing. A fucking thing indeed."