Watches & Wonders 2026 and why horological novelties are not what we are about

Every April, Geneva holds its breath. The great houses descend on Palexpo, the press follows, and the watch world turns its collective gaze toward what the industry has decided to call its novelties.

This year, sixty-five brands gathered for what the organisers billed as the largest watchmaking event ever staged in the city. Rolex marked a century of the Oyster case. Patek Philippe marked fifty years of the Nautilus with a long-awaited return to steel. TAG Heuer gave the Monaco a thorough mechanical overhaul. Parmigiani unveiled a chronograph whose hands appear only when needed, then vanish entirely — a world first, by their account. And Chanel presented a flying tourbillon set with 701 diamonds. Limited to twelve pieces. Price to be confirmed.

It is, without question, extraordinary craft. The people behind these watches have devoted their lives to a discipline most of the world has entirely forgotten. That deserves respect.

But.....

A word about novelties

There is something worth examining in that word. A novelty is, by definition, something new. Something that supersedes what came before. Something that requires you to want again — to covet again — even if what you already own is perfectly serviceable, keeps excellent time, and will outlast you by several generations.

That is the engine of Geneva. The annual restlessness. The perpetual novelty. And for the brands concerned, it works magnificently. The waiting lists, the grey market premiums, the Instagram frenzy — all of it sustained by the belief that this year's release renders last year's slightly insufficient.

One critic writing about this year's fair observed that many brands are now pricing themselves out of every conversation that isn't happening in Monaco. They are right.

The horological ladder has been pulled up. What was once a world for enthusiasts — a broad church of people who simply loved mechanical things and the craft behind them — has become, at its apex, the exclusive province of the very few.

Wagstaff is not that. We never have been.

What we are about

We were founded in 1923 in Yorkshire. We make watches for people who work outdoors, who spend time in fields and on rivers and at shows. People who want a timepiece that does its job quietly and honestly — that won’t embarrass them at the table and won’t bankrupt them when it needs attention.

Our watches run from seven hundred pounds to two thousand. They are made with Swiss and Japanese movements, built to last, and designed to be worn — not stored, not insured, not photographed for investment purposes. There is no waiting list. There is no secondary market premium. There is simply a well-made watch at a fair price, available to anyone who wants one.

That is inclusivity. Not in the sense the word has come to mean in modern marketing — not diversity campaigns or widened demographics or carefully curated imagery — but in the older, plainer sense: the door is open, and the price is honest.

The matter of servicing

Which brings us to something that has been sitting in our minds this week, watching the Geneva coverage unfold.

A Patek Philippe service. Having a Patek Philippe serviced at an authorised centre now costs, in many cases, over two thousand pounds.

Two thousand pounds. To service a watch you have already paid many thousands to own.

We want to be careful here. We have every respect for Patek Philippe. The new 5322G Calatrava — a 24-hour alarm housed inside that disciplined, composed case — is a genuinely beautiful thing, and the craft behind it is entirely real. But the total cost of ownership, from purchase through to servicing and beyond, has become something only a very narrow band of people can sustain across a lifetime.

That troubles us. Because a mechanical watch is, at its heart, a relationship. It asks something of you over time. It needs attention, care, and the occasional intervention of a skilled pair of hands. And if that relationship becomes financially punishing — if the watch on your wrist begins to feel like a liability rather than a companion — then something has gone wrong in the transaction between maker and wearer.

A service should never feel like a penalty. That is a principle, not a sales point.

At Wagstaff, we want our watches to be worn for decades, passed down if they find willing hands, serviced sensibly and sent back out into the world. The watch is not finished when it leaves us. That is the whole point.

What endures

There is a Latin phrase we return to often: memento mori. Remember that you will die. It sounds grim until you sit with it for a moment. It is, in fact, the most clarifying thought available. Time is finite. What you do with it matters. What you wear on your wrist as the hours pass is, in some small way, a declaration of what you value.

We think the answer — for most people, living most lives — is something honest. Something well-made and fairly priced. Something that will be there in twenty years, still running, still wearing well, not behind glass awaiting a valuation.

Geneva does many things brilliantly. But Geneva is not for everyone. The watch world is considerably larger and considerably more interesting than the halls of Palexpo.

The SW5 Yorkshire MkIII

If you would like to see what Wagstaff stands for in practice, we will be at the Great Yorkshire Show in July, where we will be showing the SW5 Yorkshire MkIII field chronograph — a watch built for exactly the kind of life that no one in Geneva is designing for.

Come and find us. Handle the watch. Ask us anything. That is how we prefer to do business.

— Wagstaff Watches, est. Yorkshire, 1923.