David Barry – Civil Engineer & Volunteer
I’ve never thought of myself as extraordinary. I’ve always just believed in doing my bit—with a little humour, plenty of common sense and above all, a belief that communities matter. My journey from a lively childhood in rural Ireland, to decades of life and service in Cranleigh, has taught me that life isn’t about chasing grandeur. It’s about the simple power of showing up, helping where you can and keeping the spirit of community alive.
I was born in 1943 in Mallow, County Cork—the southernmost county in Ireland. One of 10 children, I was number 7 and I always like to say I was the lucky one. Growing up in a bustling house that once belonged to my grandparents, life was rarely quiet, but it was deeply rich in love and companionship. We weren’t wealthy by any means. But our family had something I’ve come to value more than anything else: a powerful social connection. The kind of bond that teaches you the joy of sharing, laughing and of listening.
My father was one of 8 and a brilliant, natural engineer. He had once hoped to become a priest, but a near-fatal brush with appendicitis changed his course—and luckily for me and my siblings, he met my mother instead. He became the Town Clerk in Mallow and stayed in that job for 40 years. Though we lived modestly, he wired up diesel generators for our house long before the national grid reached our corner of the world. We even had many 8mm silent Charlie Chaplin films projected at home—an enormous treat for the time.
We didn’t live a privileged life, but we had a sense of purpose, a practical know-how and an abundance of community. Summers brought cousins from all around Ireland. We’d race through hayfields, smoke a sneaky cigarette, and play ‘conkers’ till we dropped. And one Christmas, when most boys got cowboy outfits, I was given a rare ‘Red Indian’ (as it was called at that time) costume. Nobody else had one and I cherished it.
Education came through a small National school, nearly a mile walk away. Later I went off to a minor seminary boarding school—people thought I might follow my father’s early dream of priesthood. But more than religious vocation, what I received from that experience was a love of learning. I studied Latin and Greek for 5 years (plus several other subjects for ‘Leaving Cert’) and ended up Head Boy, which gave me my first real insight into leadership and diplomacy. You learn quickly that you can’t just demand respect; you have to earn it.
After secondary school I studied civil engineering at university in Cork; at that time we called it ‘the biggest village in the world’. That faculty choice came from a quiet moment with my father. He told someone, within earshot, that I could “do engineering if he wants to go to university.” That quiet vote of confidence was all I needed. I didn’t set out to become an engineer but his belief in me opened the door — and I walked through it.
After graduating, I decided to go where the greatest challenge was, and so I came to UK in 1966 to work on highways, not because the money was better (it wasn’t), but because I wanted to do the hard bit first. I landed a job on a dual carriageway project in Bracknell—a new town at the time—and stayed there for 6 years, where I married my wife Wendy. My line manager and I got on brilliantly and I learned that engineering, like community, is all about solving complex problems through collaboration.
We moved to Warwickshire next, where I worked on a motorway design linking the M5 and M1 (our first child was born soon after). Around that time, the term “environment” started creeping into public discourse. We engineers had to look up the word in the dictionary to understand it properly! Suddenly noise pollution, air quality and visual impact became part of our design process. It was a turning point for me. I realised that engineering was more than technical drawings and calculations — it was about people.
By chance I attended a transport and environment conference at Loughborough University. I asked lots of questions—some I didn’t even understand the answers to—and caught the attention of a major consultancy firm, WS Atkins. They offered me a job in Epsom, Surrey and in 1974 we moved to Cranleigh.
Back then we were living near Stratford-upon-Avon and house prices in Surrey were shocking. But someone said, “Try Cranleigh, it’s a growing village.” We took the gamble and moved to Cranleigh in November 1974, with me commuting to Epsom for the next 30 years. My work evolved from engineering into environmental planning, and later into Waste Management and Contaminated Land.
One of the biggest projects I won for the company was on the Greenwich Peninsula which housed what was the largest (but obsolete) gasworks site in Europe; our team helped transform the site that eventually housed the O2 Arena. That project alone earned the company over £25 million in fees, but what mattered most to me was how we were helping to create new community zones.
While my professional life grew, my home life kept me grounded. My wife Wendy and I raised 4 children, all born within a 5-year period. We made a conscious decision that I wouldn’t commit to local clubs early on — not because I didn’t care about community, but because I wanted to be present, family first. Subsequently I helped with Scouts, Guides, school lifts and at many Youth Band concerts. Later all 4 children went on to different universities, between Brighton and Durham, with each gaining a 2:1 degree – something Wendy and I were immensely proud of.
It wasn’t until they had ‘flown the nest’ that I began to devote more time to local community service. I joined Cranleigh Rotary and enjoyed the camaraderie, the projects, the speakers. I helped out with everything from ‘shoebox appeals for Romania’ to marshalling at village fun runs. Eventually I got involved with the Cranleigh Village Hospital Trust (CVHT)—one of the most significant community commitments I’ve ever made.
CVHT had a bold vision: to build a new care home with beds available for community use. It wasn’t without controversy. Some doubted our motives, others accused us of misusing funds. But I can tell you — hand on heart — that we poured thousands of hours into that cause. We believed in it and none more so than Nic Vrijland, one of the village’s quietest but greatest benefactors. He donated land, funded infrastructure and stood by Cranleigh through thick and thin. His most recent generosity helped create the Knowle Park Initiative — now a place where people of all ages gather, connect and enjoy nature.
That’s what I mean when I say community isn’t built on policies, it’s built on people, people like Nic. That park is a masterclass in what happens when generosity meets vision — and when neighbours work together.
Now in retirement, — though I never use that word — I’ve simply shifted my activity balance; I call it the 4-zone model: domestic, social, charitable and professional. I still do some professional consulting and am a frequent volunteer driver for Cranleigh Village Care charity. I quiz, I write, I listen. I try to give people time. And most of all, I try to be a conduit — to connect dots where I can, because community doesn’t need a hero; it needs a gardener. Someone to sow seeds, nurture growth and trust that something good will bloom.
So what advice would I give a young person today, growing up in Cranleigh — or anywhere? Firstly, get involved. Don’t wait for someone else to fix what you care about. Whether you’re into drama, football, climate or code — find your tribe. Secondly, look beyond the screen. Real community is eye contact, shared tasks and lifting someone else’s burden when they’re struggling. And finally, be open to chance. Much of what has shaped my life happened not through grand plans, but because I said yes to an opportunity—or asked a question nobody else was asking.
In today’s world, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed or insignificant. But believe me: you can make a difference – be a volunteer! Show up! Listen more than you speak! If you’re lucky you’ll find your own Cranleigh — a place you love and that loves you back.
I’m not saying I’ve done it all perfectly by any means. I’ve made mistakes, taken on too much at times and been overwhelmed. But I’ve also experienced moments of deep connection — at church fixing a problem, in a hospital trust meeting, or just sitting down ‘over a pint’ with someone who needed to talk. And here’s the truth: community doesn’t need perfection, it needs presence.
So, if you’re reading this, wondering whether your efforts matter—whether you can inspire others or bring about change—know this: you really can. It starts by caring. It grows through ‘doing’ and one day, someone else will tell their story — and you’ll be the reason they stepped up.
David Barry lives in Cranleigh, Surrey. A civil engineer by training, he is active in local community service, environmental planning and charity work. He remains a firm believer in balancing family, service and purpose with a strong cup of coffee and a good concise crossword.
