Driven by Purpose: A Windsor Coachman’s Journey for Dyslexia
- Rebecca Seear
- Oct 7
- 6 min read
Updated: 5 days ago
In 1994, my father, John Seear, harnessed his pair of Welsh Cobs, brothers Minos and Hector, to his Windsor hackney carriage and departed from Windsor Castle on a five day journey to Cornwall. This time, the journey wasn’t about tradition. It was about purpose.
“A Windsor coachman is planning a 270-mile trip by horse and carriage to help the Helen Arkell Dyslexia Centre in Farnham.”— The Windsor Observer, Sept 1994
The drive was in aid of the Helen Arkell Dyslexia Centre, raising both funds and awareness at a time when few people spoke openly about learning difficulties.
He was seen off by the Mayor of Windsor, Bryan Hedley, and Welsh actress Angharad Rees (pictured with the couple). Also offering their support were Peter Munt, England’s top professional coachman at the time and a friend of John's, along with one of Whitbread’s horse-drawn drays.
It was a quiet kind of statement. Just a coachman and his horses supporting a cause that mattered. And, as you’ll read, it was personal.
My Story with Dyslexia, Feeling Different
Growing up on a working stable yard, one of my daily jobs was preparing the horses' feeds. The instructions were written on a whiteboard: each horse’s name and, beside it, the exact breakdown of their feed—quantities, supplements, timing.
For most, it was a task that took minutes. For me, it was a daily struggle.
The numbers wouldn’t sit still. The names blurred. I’d lose my place, forget what I’d already added, and panic about getting it wrong. I couldn’t explain why something so simple felt so hard. And my dad, always practical and moving, couldn’t understand what I was getting stuck on.
I learned to rely on memory and pattern and my father and I shared a frustration, one he couldn’t fix.
At ten, when I moved schools, the new teachers quickly noticed there was a problem. I couldn’t keep up. The word “dyslexia” was whispered—because back then, it wasn’t widely talked about, let alone understood. I was the first child in my school to receive a diagnosis.
I have always reflected that my father felt some responsibility for those early years of frustration, ever practical, he couldn't understand why I found the simplest of tasks impossible.
I remember walking into school one morning and spotting faint traces of straw in the reception area. I recognised it immediately. It was from our stables. My father’s boots had left that trail. He’d come in to speak with the staff and insist I be allowed to take English and maths at GCSE level—even though the school thought I’d fail and hurt their league tables.
He tutored me at home after school. With maths, he’d often say, “You don’t need half of this in the real world,” but he still helped me pass. He never stopped calling dyslexia “your condition,” saying it gravely, like he was introducing me to a hospital consultant. Even in my thirties, he’d introduce me like this: “This is my daughter, Rebecca. She has a condition.” which would make me chuckle. But he took it seriously—because he saw how hard I struggled and how hard I worked to hide it.
I was very fortunate, I received weekly tuition with a special tutor, paid for by the local authority, and was funded a laptop with tools to help me annotate texts and learn. Without that support, I wouldn’t have made it to university, let alone graduated with a degree in... English!
But my dad felt called to do more. So, he turned to the only thing he truly knew—his horses and his carriage. When you’ve spent your life in the driving seat, you don’t raise awareness by giving a speech. You do it by taking the reins. And that’s exactly what he did. Over 200 miles from Windsor to Cornwall, one step at a time. There were headlines. There was a send-off. But more than that, there was heart, quiet conviction.
The Journey to Cornwall
Dad raised thousands of pounds for the Helen Arkell Dyslexia centre, but more importantly, he started conversations and made dyslexia more visible in our local area. He wanted to start dialogues that weren’t being had—in schools, in families, in communities.
People came out of their homes to wave. Others offered water for the horses, stable space for the night, or simply kind words.
Some joined him for part of the drive. He never asked for attention, but people noticed.
“A quintessentially British act of solidarity… Mr Seear’s drive reminds us that the carriage is not just a relic of the past, but a vessel for change.”— Western Morning News, 1994
The journey followed the old coaching roads: Windsor to Basingstoke, through Andover, Salisbury, Shaftesbury, Sherborne, Honiton and Exeter, then onwards into Devon and Cornwall—finishing on the southern coast at St Mawes.
Other carriage drivers turned up along the route to keep my dad company at various points. He was especially grateful to be joined by members of the Devon Driving Society for what would have otherwise been a lonely—and very wet—drive across Dartmoor in horizontal rain.
Driving through Basingstoke presented a unique challenge.
“It was the only place on the entire route where we had to use dual carriageways,” said John.
To prepare, they completed three practice runs through Basingstoke beforehand just to make sure they could navigate their way safely through the town.
The route itself had been carefully mapped out by The Automobile Association, who played a vital role in the planning.
On the final day, well-known Cornish carriage driver Amos Putt drove in tandem with him for the entire journey to the finish.
“Mr Seear chose the Dyslexia Centre because it has helped his daughter, who has learning difficulties. ‘This is my way of giving something back.’”— John Seear, 1994
Solving the Puzzle
Years later, I faced a very different challenge: How do you keep a Victorian carriage business relevant in the modern world? There was no manual for that. But this is where dyslexia became my advantage. I could hold ideas in my head like pieces of a puzzle. I saw patterns, felt the solutions, and made instinctive decisions others might have second-guessed.
For a long time, I hid my dyslexia—especially during my corporate years. I thought it made me less professional. Less polished. Now, I realise it’s part of what makes me unique at what I do.
When LinkedIn added “dyslexic thinking” as a skill, thanks to Sir Richard Branson, it was a powerful moment for those of us who had hidden it so long. A quiet resilience. A moment of pride. Owning my story, rather than apologising for it.
“Dyslexia is not a disadvantage. It’s just a different way of thinking. Some of the most successful people I know are dyslexic.”— Sir Richard Branson
Remembering Minos & Hector
Bred by a family friend, Minos and Hector were with me for as long as I can remember — from Pony Club ribbons to my own wedding day, when they proudly escorted me to the chapel.
They were my father’s trusted pair on this journey to Cornwall and continued to drive for another twenty years at Windsor Castle after that expedition.
They both outlived my father as did his other trusted horse, Sam, and, in many ways, became the reason Windsor’s carriage tradition still endures today. Even after he passed, I couldn’t stop driving ..... because they didn’t want to either.
In their quiet strength, they carried me on, just as they had carried him.
Dyslexia Awareness Week 2025
This October is Dyslexia Awareness Week in the UK, with the theme “Raising the Volume.” I wanted to share the journey my dad made before it disappears into history, may it inspire and provoke conversations. There are so many incredible stories out there, lived by everyday people; let this be a call to share them.
For me, I’ll always be amazed at how Dad took everything he needed within the carriage—from horse feed and rugs to their own essentials. If I were to repeat it, I think I’d need a ground crew and a helicopter!
So I’m sharing this for: the misunderstood child, the adult who masks spelling mistakes with humour, the parents trying to find answers, and the horseman who did something remarkable 30 years ago.
Dyslexia doesn’t stop you from succeeding. You just have to find your way through the puzzle. And trust me—the picture, in the end, is beautiful.
Help us share stories that inspire courage, resilience, and pride. Share this post or tag someone whose story deserves to be heard.
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