If Scotland can be said to have a national poem then it would be Alastair Reid's 'Scotland', a paean to a beautiful day whose charm was clouded by a dour onlooker.

When the poet enthused about the brilliance of the weather, she replied, "We'll pay for it, we'll pay for it, we'll pay for it." Those sentiments feel as relevant as ever with the election looming, and wrangling, backbiting and recrimination on one side of the Scottish political divide, and a determined optimism on the other. I know which I find more attractive. But there was more to Alastair Reid's way of seeing than joie de vivre and delight.

He died in New York last September, aged 88, and a memorial celebration was held for him there in March, where there was standing room only. A few days ago there was a similar event in Edinburgh, to which friends flocked. The poet Tom Pow, publisher Stephanie Wolfe-Murray, literary critic James Campbell, journalist Allan Little and farmer Finn McCreath spoke warmly and movingly of one of our most nomadic, engaging and profound writers.

As the son of Tom McCreath, one of Alastair's childhood friends, with whom he had roamed Galloway, Finn offered an insight into the origins of his ideas. One year, he recalled, after helping bring in the harvest the schoolboy Alastair was delighted to be given some money for his day's hard graft. It dawned on him then, it seems, that it was possible to do something you loved and at the same time make a living from it.

After service in the Royal Navy during the war, Alastair went on to become a full-time writer and translator, returning like a migrating bird to Scotland to pick up the threads before flying off again. As the event wore on, it became clear that for many Alastair's way of living, along with his exceptionally clear-eyed outlook, had been inspirational. Not only did he travel tirelessly, but he wrote just enough to get by. Indeed, for a man who had shrugged off religion, he was almost devout in his insistence on remaining as unburdened by things as possible. As he explained in his essay called Other People's Houses, he had learned to exist with nothing more than a shoulder pack when he was on the high seas. "The habit stuck - today I have next to no possessions, and I have closed the door on more houses and apartments than I can remember, leaving behind what I did not immediately need. If I had a family crest, it should read omnia mea mecum porto (all that is mine I carry with me); but it would get left behind."

As the speeches flowed, it was hard not feel the gulf between Alastair's footloose philosophy and that of politicians desperate for our vote. Even as we were rejoicing in a life that revolved around essentials in every sense, party press offices were churning out sound bites and promises, offering enticements in the form of lower taxes, better pensions, free childcare and other lollipops. It is as if those who would hold power believe the wallet is the quickest route to our hearts. Holding out the prospect of owning more and earning better, of seeing bank balances rise and household goods multiply, is clearly deemed the best way to win our loyalty. Of course we all need enough money to exist. But if it's usually only zealots or the comfortably-off who can afford to be idealistic or blasé about finances, it is also true that if material well-being is the height of our ambition, and wealth the best measure of success and security, then our inner lives must be woefully threadbare.

Alastair, for all he was a son of the manse, was the least preachy of individuals. Though he could be acerbic on occasion, he viewed people with a generous, amused eye, and was not quick to judge. He did not need to proselytise about his self-sufficient, simple ways. They were obvious to any who cared to look. What was extraordinary and impressive, however, was how little he required in order to live as he wanted: his family and wife, and a wide circle of friends; a few good books; a knife sharpener and soup blender; and a radio to give him the Scottish football results.

If more of us were like him, politicians' chocolate-button tactics, more suited to training a dog than to answering serious questions of governance, would quickly become null and void, obliging them to come up with something more substantial. Roll on that day. Meanwhile, Alastair Reid may not have bequeathed much in material terms, but he leaves behind a wealth of sunny memories, and words without number we will never forget.