It is disturbing in the extreme to learn that ‘rogue taxidermy’ even exists.

Already, I am certain, your mind will be riffling through limitless possibilities, each with all the charm of that classic Peter Greenaway film,  A Zed and Two Noughts.

But exist it does. It is the Frankenstein-style creation of a new ‘species’, by sewing together bits of old.

There is an engraving, by Dutch pharmacist and zoologist Albertus Seba, of a hydra. You know, that seven headed monstrous being who haunted Greek myths and their heroes. It must have seemed, to one local bigwig, that they really had, in all reality, existed.

The bigwig was the Mayor of Hamburg; and he was the proud owner of a small but perfectly formed skinned and stuffed hydra.

One would assume it had been prepared as any taxidermist might routinely do: remove the outer hide from the body: build a mannequin out of wood or some such material; and effectively dress the mannequin in the skin.

Shudder.

So his worship the mayor must have been very proud, right until the moment the eminent Swedish zoologist, Carl Linnaeus, took a close look.

After careful examination in the year 1735, the hydra was unmasked as a cunning combination of weasel and snake skins.

It takes a local dignatory to fall for a scam like that: lots of money, with expertise in their own field, and a deep conviction that they have expertise in areas of history, or art, or culture.

Local grandees through the ages have spent their lives acquiring the oddest collections; and on their deathbed they would bequeath the whole bally lot to the Market town museum down the road.

This has resulted in some eccentric installations which have lasted well past their sell-by date. Our little museums are run on a budget, and they cannot afford brand spanking new state-of-the-art surroundings.

One such little establishment is Maidstone Museum, housed in what used to be Chillington Manor, An Elizabethan manor house built in 1562.

Its most unsettling collection, by far, is the collection of stuffed wildlife, housed in glass cases and lit as sympathetically as one can light a stuffed corpse.

From tiny birds to badgers whose snouts are curled in immortal snarls, they are all there, lacking that glossy  joie de vivre which that ethereal spark of life lends.

Today I wandered listlessly through the gallery and stood by a hare to mourn. It is as well, I mused, that he did not fall into the hands of a branch of taxidermy which breathes new life into the word ‘grotesque’.

It is entitled ‘anthropomorphic taxidermy’: or rather, the practice of first stuffing animals and then, ignominiously, dressing them. Finally, the Victorians liked to arrange them in some social setting or other: a cricket match, perhaps, or a garden party.

It was a Stuttgart taxidermist who started the craze here in Britain. Herman Ploucquet set up stall at the Great Exhibition Of The Works Of Industry Of All Nations in 1851 – the huge concern which dominated Hyde Park mid-century – and he wowed crowds with his installations.

The torch was passed to a family of publicans at the White Lion in Bramber, Sussex.

Teenage son Walter Potter was so devastated when his canary died, he stuffed it. It wouldn’t have been our response to bereavement, but then we haven’t seen Herman’s wondrous Great Exhibits.

Potter went on to stuff obsessively. His magnum opus, ‘The Death and Burial of Cock Robin’, caused such a stir it was given its own little exhibition room at the pub. Later, Potter opened his own successful museum in the village.

It is notable that no-one attempted to stuff Potter after his death and dress him up in a sentimental scene: he was conventionally laid to rest in Bramber Churchyard.

His museum passed to family and closed in the 1970s.

It travelled to Cornwall, where Phil and I went round the desolate Jamaica Inn while the rain lashed the windows, attempting to mask our horrified, slightly hysterical giggles from the couple who had suggested the outing.

Taxidermy, taxidermy: fount of grotesque and unsettling stories. And there is a codicil to our trail through the valley of the stuffed.

Times were hard, and eventually the owners were forced to sell Potter’s collection. It caused a sensation and on the day of the auction, several celebrities were in the crowd.

A bid was offered before the auction, but rejected. It was from the enfant terrible of the art world, he of the pickled shark/sheep/cow installations: Damien Hirst.

Hirst, it seems, was a Potter fan. He was scathing about the Victorian taxidermist’s faults in a letter to The Guardian:”You can see he knew very little about anatomy and musculature,” he detailed, “because some of the taxidermy is terrible—there’s a kingfisher that looks nothing like a kingfisher.”

But, unbelievably, he loved the concepts.

“My own favourites are these tableaux: there’s a kittens’ wedding party, with all these kittens dressed up in costumes, even wearing jewellery. The kittens don’t look much like kittens, but that’s not the point.” he told the Guardian.

“There’s a rats’ drinking party, too, which puts a different construction on Wind In The Willows. And a group of hamsters playing cricket.”

He offered one million pounds to keep the collection together. The auctioneers declined.

There really is no accounting for taste.