by Nicholas Rhea MANY readers will remember the dreadful attack of Dutch Elm disease that killed hundreds of thousands of elms in this country and further afield. It came to notice during the late 1960s and seemed resistant to all attempts to prevent its spread. When a tree contracted the disease, it was doomed, and the disease appeared to attack only elms.

The first warning signs were small clusters of dead leaves at the tips of branches. Although it was once believed a tree might survive a small attack, it was clear that once the disease had established itself, the tree would die. The result was that millions of elms had to be felled by the authorities or landowners in an attempt to thwart the spread of the disease. This was a costly exercise but the diseased trees had to be felled in an attempt to prevent further contamination.

One side effect was that some diseased elms were liable to crash to the ground without warning, and I recall that there were instances of people being badly injured or even killed. This revived the old rural belief that rooks will never build their rookeries in diseased trees or those which were liable to crash to earth for other reasons and it followed that many landowners and country people would never construct buildings beneath trees that were ignored by rooks.

Whether a rook could recognise an elm suffering from Dutch Elm disease is a matter of conjecture but the tale has enjoyed a long period of acceptance. I have known commercial builders avoid trees that were bypassed by rooks and sometimes the belief was proved correct when such a tree crashed to earth. Or so they say!

The disease was carried by a beetle that carried the germs from tree to tree and as the beetle established itself in a host tree it burrowed beneath the bark and this activity spread a fungus that destroyed the life-giving sap-carrying veins in that particular layer of wood. With the essential sap canals irrevocably damaged in this way, the life source of the tree was put out of action and it died because it depended entirely upon its healthy bark and sap.

Contrary to the belief associated with its name, the disease did not originate in Holland. It was native to Asia and introduced to Europe in 1910, but at that time it had killed only a small selection of elms. Eventually, in 1921, it was isolated in Holland whereupon it became known as Dutch Elm disease.

By 1940, it had largely died out, but in 1967 a new strain of the disease arrived in this country on a shipment of elm wood that came from North America. Although the logs came from North America, the problem was recognised as Dutch Elm disease and within a very short time it was transferred to our existing elms. Such was the terrible impact that it was believed that the elm, always regarded as one of our most spectacular and stately trees, was in danger of extinction.

Indeed, 25 million elms in this country died as a consequence and although scientists struggled to find a means of preventing the disease or killing the beetles and their offspring, it seemed the beetles were immune to all attempts. The only positive way was to fell the trees.

However, it now seems that an elm that is resistant to Dutch Elm disease has been discovered. Some 27 years ago, the owner of a tree nursery in Essex was felling diseased elms when he noticed a 200-year old disease-free tree among them. He took cuttings and propagated them and it was reported two years ago that all the saplings that have grown from those cuttings continue to remain free of Dutch Elm disease.

It appears that this particular tree, known as ulmus procera, is able to repel the disease-carrying beetle. The tree nursery owner has also observed that at the point where he first noticed the disease-free specimen that gave birth to those saplings, others up to 150-200 years old are thriving there and remaining disease-free. This offers hope that the elm will regain its place in the splendour of the English countryside. Certainly in recent years, there has been little concern about Dutch Elm disease, probably because there are no longer any trees to suffer from it.

This region has had some famous elms, one being in the grounds of Easby Abbey near Richmond, where it was known as The Abbot's Elm. An old account said: “Hereunder, many a monk has mused and basked in the summer sunshine, recalling his conflict and spirit tempering at the cold hands of the world till he could feed on fat pullets and clotted cream.”

Another elm stood on St James' Green at Thirsk where elections took place beneath it. Sadly, on Guy Fawkes Night, 1818, local vandals set fire to it and it was destroyed.

The month of June is generally associated with hay-time and I can remember my childhood when I helped my grandfather to gather in the dried hay and cart it into the farm buildings or else fork it onto a massive stack. The growing stack looked huge to me, a lad of some five or six years, and I remember the men at hay-time refreshing themselves with mugs of cold milk-free tea.

One of my own stories of that time involved a splendid pen-knife given to me as a birthday present. It had a black serrated handle and contained all manner of gadgets including two blades, a screwdriver, a bottle opener, a prong for taking stones out of horses' hooves and some other tools about which I have little memory.

However, it was during one hay-time when I was about 12 years old that I lost it in the hayfield. We were leading the dried hay and when I felt in my pocket, my precious knife had vanished. I knew it was somewhere in that hayfield, unless it had been caught up with some hay and built into the haystack or stacked in a stable.

Many months later, when the cows were indoors for the winter, I helped with the milking, mucking out and supplying them with fresh hay and straw. After I had replenished the hay-racks of the cows, I became aware of one of them – Daisy – coughing and spluttering, and then she spat out my pen-knife.

I could hardly believe what I was seeing but I patted her neck and praised her for not swallowing it. My precious knife looked no worse for its experience and there was not even a sign of rust. It was amazing that it had survived all the activity from field to cowshed, and probably equally amazing that the cow had not swallowed it with her mouthful of hay.

I remembered the old saying about finding a needle in a haystack, but I had found my pen-knife – or rather Daisy the cow had found it.

And finally, although June is often known as Flaming June due to the heat of the sun, most Yorkshire farmers welcome rain. There is a saying that “A dripping June puts all in tune” whilst another says “June damp and warm does the farmer no harm” and most of us know that a swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon.