LONGINES HYDROCONQUEST IN GREEN: CHASING GREEN HYPE OR SOMETHING SPECIAL?

roadwarrior

Grand Tyme Master
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scratch the itch for a Rolex Submariner ref. 116610LV “Hulk”

FEBRUARY 10, 2020


https://www.watchchronicler.com/new-...thing-special/

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Longines has launched two versions of the ever-popular Longines HydroConquest in green. Released in two versions and offered with a silicon balance spring, this option might just scratch the itch for a Rolex Submariner ref. 116610LV “Hulk” and show the future for mid-range dive watches.

I make no secret of my admiration for the Longines HydroConquest. If you want a good quality Swiss dive watch for a medium price but with luxury features, it is the obvious choice. It is handsome, features an excellent movement and construction and is produced by a brand which really is only going up with an annual turnover in excess of CHF 1,000,000. Until now, the HydroConquest has only been available in blue, grey and black. Now, though, there are two new HydroConquest variants in the ever-popular green ‘Hulk’ format.

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Longines HydroConquest Forest Green Boutique Edition | Copyright: Longines Watch Co. Francillon Ltd.

The HydroConquest Boutique Edition has a bright green vertical brushed ceramic dial, and it houses a L888.5 calibre designed exclusively for Longines, with a silicon balance spring

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In Conclusion


As stated at the beginning of this article, the motives for releasing such watches seems impossible to ignore yet it does appear that Longines has launched two genuinely cracking watches. What differentiates them is that, whilst the khaki version is attractive, the forest green Longines HydroConquest heralds important changes for this line.

Availability: Khaki Green: £1,230 / Forest Green: As of yet unpriced, but I suspect that the price will be closer to £2,000.

Specifications
  • Dimensions: Khaki Green: 41mm or 43mm | Forest Green: 41mm
  • Material: Stainless Steel & Zirconia Ceramic
  • Crystal: Flat Anti-Reflective Sapphire
  • Display: SuperLuminova-filled applied markers / Rhodium-plated hands / Date at 3 o’clock / Unidirectional ceramic bezel (with guarded luminous pip on Forest Green model) / Khaki Green: matte khaki painted brass dial | Forest Green: vertically brushed dark green zirconia ceramic dial /
  • Water Resistance: 300m / 30 ATM / 1,000ft
  • Movement: Longines cal. L888.3 (Khaki Green) & cal. L888.5 (Forest Green): 21 jewels / Hacking / Automatic & manual winding / Time & date / 3.5hz, 25,200 vph, 7 ticks-per-second / 64-hour power reserve / Quick-set date | cal. L888.5 (Forest Green): Silicon balance spring
 
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bright forest green vertical brush ceramic dial...green strong in 2019 continues strong in 2020
 
A very impressive, automatic, three hand, Pro Diver, in two superb sizes, from Longines. Respectable, versatile, and distinctive.:dance2: Thanks Mike.:hat:
 
Like the Green vertical line design on the dial.
bumping GREGG

yeah worthy LONG MEADOW DIVER

how do I feel ?

HULK demand exceeds supply across top trademarks

channel TIM TEMPLE "highly collectible " but not an " investment " imho

COLOR WAY called " hulk " to me scratch OD like the omega RR blue jean wrist machine

LONG MEADOW is probably my favorite kinda rich man's tool

but I would dress for success and just spin yarns over my piscatorial prowess

i wear my lowest beaters to sweat ,grunt, fall
 
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T.S. Eliot has nothing over Scotty B's whimsical wordsmith mastery. Words are timeless that will endure long after the earth becomes a wasteland.




T. S. Eliot



"East Coker," from *The Four Quartets*


I.

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur, and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotized. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not reflected, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.
In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.


II.

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns

That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hope for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebitude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.


III.

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again,
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.


IV.

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.


V.

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
 
have to circle back read all them words...BUT


MARCUS AURELIUS

benevolent-emporer-philospher

wrote on STOICISM...read some...tymes like our... MARCUS AURELIUS and BUDDHA drinking buds...

expect the worst... be prepared... but... your mind is yours to keep and nourish...

and for low brow pop...GLADIATOR RUSSEL CROWE son of NOBLE MARCUS AURELIUS ...COMMODUS....boo stage left...whimsical tyrannical cruel horny...

true stuff... NOBLE MARCUS AURELIUS'S SON was COMMODUS like the flick
 
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