On August 22nd 2007, Albert Henry George Turpin, my grandfather, died. Age 84.
He was an artist and engineer. Two things found together far too little in the world today.
One of the items he requested I have were two of his special watches.
He loved clocks, and was even a clockmarker himself for a few years. I have two of the clocks he built himself, and will photograph them as well. I intend to get them working again.

The other watch I have is quite a pretty little pocket watch, but this one is special and always filled me with wonder.
He took it to be inspected once, and all they could say was the cost of repair and approximate age.

This watch is about 300 years old.

It used to have hands and used to run. He used to tell me the lack of those features is because of his children when they were young.
You can feel the age just looking at this watch. Let me elaborate..

The rear of the milled brass clamshell is covered by dark leather formed over it, and held in place by gold pins. It looks primordial, where over the centuries the leather has abraded away and the tops of the pins have worn smooth. By the protective overhang of the hinge you can still see the flower pattern that was once engraved on the head of every one of those tacks. Only one such pin remains in the leather of the front sides covering. The release catch contains what might be remnants of silver, worn concave from whatever the button might once have been.
Inside that protective housing, covering the inside surface and protruding pins, protecting the mechanism itself are the few whispy remains of the pink silk lining.
Inside there we find the watch itself. No hands are left on the dual-marked face, the standard english "5" chipped away as is the "30" where the release lever protrudes oddly.
The inner housing pulls away, the pin in the hinge long gone along with the hinged glass. Inside the enclosure, simply the markings "GW 186", and the visible braising joints.
The mechanism itself, heart exposed. At this point the age of this become a marvel. Three centuries gone, and with hand-born detail so fine it takes a magnifying lens to apreciate it. My camera is not able to.
Bright golden brass, covered in intricate filigree, swirling and curling around each functional item. Along one edge, the inscription "Dever Boivly/Borvly, 186, London". The R in Dever seems to have a small "X" above it, but neither I nor my grandfather ever managed to find any record of this person.
The standoffs inside the mechanism are elaborate little blued-steel chess-pawn pillars and golden brass tapered boxes. And laying in a tangle around them and delicate gears, the fusee regulator chain. Come loose from it's spindle, the cause of the clock's silence, but the most impressive and subtle componant of the whole thing.
A bicycle-style chain, hand-made. A millimetre across and less thick. Each pin in every link, impossibly small, thinner than the smallest modern hypodermic needle. Made by hand in the back of some ill-paid and grubby specialists shop, somewhere in the middle of London. Three hundred years ago.

I wish I knew more about the history of the thing. There's some very faint scratched letters inside the inner rear housing, but all that tells me is that at some point it's been through a pawn shop.
I've wondered if the seemingly odd position of the fascia catch might indicate that this was a show work. One of those items made by an apprentice to show they have finally mastered all the skills, thrown together in an elaborate demonstration piece. But it's just a theory.

And for all this history and wonder, it's material value? £50 as it is, perhaps £300 if completely restored. And only £1500 to have that done.
It will never be a timepiece again, I'm sure. But, I would like to be able to hear it tick again.