If ever there was an event that ended up being too successful for its own good, then surely it was the previous incarnation of the Whitstable Oyster Festival.

It’s back this weekend – now known as the Whitstable Rocks Oyster Festival - and plenty are expected to attend.

An annual knees-up in the town, it was once primarily a community event – pulling in the good people of the seaside town to celebrate their heritage and the natural bounty of the seas on which it had traditionally relied.

When I moved to Whitstable in the mid-1990s it was a really joyous occasion – there was dancing, a horse-drawn carriage delivered oysters freshly fished from the sea to local hostelries, there were activities for the town’s children – in short, it was a beautifully curated, well-organised event that locals looked forward to. The streets were busy, but not packed, and community spirit was rife. Plus, it was held at the start of the summer holidays which always got things off to a happy start.

And then something changed.

I can still remember reading, in 1999, an article in one of the Sunday national newspapers which suddenly declared the festival one of the world’s greatest. It leap-frogged the likes of the Cannes Film Festival and the colour and cultures on show at the Notting Hill Carnival.

I could scarcely believe what I was reading. How on earth had that just happened? Our little town better than the glitz, glamour and sun of Cannes?

It was only eclipsed on the list by Glastonbury and the Edinburgh Fringe. High praise indeed.

People in the office in London in which I worked suddenly twigged that was where I lived. The little town they’d never heard of suddenly put on the map. The warning signs were there, in retrospect.

But with such adulation came crowds. So many people, in fact, what was once a local event became swamped by tourists.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong in itself with outsiders to the town wanting to enjoy what it had to offer – it’s easy to dismiss the income it generates, but should never be underestimated - but as the festival expanded its duration and its celebrity spread, so the roads became clogged. Anyone who dared live within a short stroll of the beach could never park near their home and, frankly, it all became a bit much.

Our little town stopped being ours.

Rather than looking forward to the annual knees-up, many locals start to fear it.

By the mid 20-teens things, perhaps inevitably, got so out of hand – antisocial behaviour, litter everywhere – a change was forced upon it.

This year’s event was only announced a handful of weeks ago. It takes place after the schools have gone back. It’s only three days long.

I hope it’s a success. I hope the community turns out for it. I hope it once again remembers its purpose.